


The Lasting Prejudice

by toxicblondie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Politics, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26780398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toxicblondie/pseuds/toxicblondie
Summary: Hermione Granger is now a celebrated non-fiction author. Desperate to write a revolutionary book, she goes undercover to work at the Ministry of Magic, where she will be faced with someone who broke her in more ways than one: Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 46
Kudos: 93





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,  
> This idea popped up in my head three days ago and I haven't been able to let it go since. I hope at least one person out there will like it.  
> I hope to publish about a chapter per week. I've written about five chapters so far, excluding the prologue. Chapter 1 will be published either later tonight or tomorrow, depending on how effectively I can edit it.   
> Thanks!

Hermione sighed as she folded the newspaper. The _Daily Prophet_ truly knew how to get on her last nerves. “A fresh new take on primitive culture”, really? Had they even read the fucking book?

She got up and poured the last drops of coffee in her cup. She took a sip. It was cold, but she didn’t mind – she was too enraged to even notice, to be honest. It had been _seven years_ since the war had ended, and the wizarding world’s opinion of Muggles and Muggle culture had not moved an inch – if anything, it had regressed. The useless American war on Iraq certainly hadn’t helped – not that wizards had managed to see the irony with that one.

Hermione’s last book, _A culture of protest_ , took an in-depth look at French Muggle culture, and, more specifically, at the ways in which the French had innovated protest culture and created a precedent for overthrowing power and changing the political system at the drop of the hat. She had, of course, taken to criticize French colonialism and its lasting consequences on the world in a separate section, not that it mattered. The _Daily Prophet_ had wholeheartedly disregarded that part, and instead focused on those that dealt with strikes, protests and strike funds, deeming them to be “primitive” and “uncivilized”. She thought reading the chapter on the everlasting consequences of colonialism would have at least helped them avoid this poor wording, but, truly, what had she expected? It was the _Prophet_ after all – at its best, it was a tool for harmless political fluff. At its worst, it was a full-on propaganda machine – and her books weren’t written to be seen in a good light either way.

After depositing her cup in the sink, Hermione headed to the bathroom and took a long, dearly needed, hot shower. Her editor, Ernie Macmillan, was riding her for a new book idea, and she had diddly-squat – _nada, rien,_ _什么_ _, niente._ She didn’t feel compelled to keep writing about Muggle culture – while her last three books had been best sellers, they hadn’t made much of a change, and she knew her name was the real selling point. Ernie had tried to suggest she write a memoir about her years at Hogwarts, or her friendship with Harry, or even a novel of some sort. She had turned down every single suggestion and wouldn’t budge – she wasn’t about to sell out her best friend, or even herself. As long as she kept writing on what she was passionate about, she could manage to convince herself her soul was still freely available to her, and not yet for sale.

As she sat down on her couch, she grabbed a legal pad and a pencil. She had a meeting with Ernie at 3 p.m. and she knew his patience was growing thin – she had to come up with something, and she only had the morning to do so. She sat there, tapping her pencil on the upper left corner of her pad, thinking so intensely she thought she might burst. By 10 a.m., a migraine had snuck up on her and she gave up, throwing the pad on the coffee table, frustrated with both herself and her all-too-ambitious editor. Ernie had launched his publishing house three years ago, and it was now one of the most successful businesses in wizarding Europe – some of its more famous books included never-seen-before notes from Dumbledore’s desk, Viktor’s Krum autobiography (which included an incredibly embarrassing chapter about his feelings for Hermione), Rita Skeeter’s novels, and, now, Hermione’s three books on Muggle culture. When she had shown up at his office, two years ago, with loosely put together notes and a couple of ideas, he had been more than eager to get her to sign with him. She was grateful for the opportunity, of course, but she was also incredibly frustrated with his demands and his ability to always interrupt her, even when he was talking out of his ass. _Men¸_ had simply thought Hermione the first time it happened. She had since let it go, considering her energy too precious to be wasted on this nonsense, and just nodded passively while he tried to get her to change her mind about the books she was writing. It didn’t matter – he always ended up going with whatever she wanted to write, knowing her name alone would boost both his sales and his brand’s prestige.

After swallowing an aspirin and sitting down on her bathroom floor, Hermione thought back to all those useless reviews published by the _Daily Prophet_ and likeminded newspapers since she had begun writing. There had to be _something_ there, some inkling of an idea. She felt like writing a book tearing the _Prophet_ a new one would be deeply satisfying, but ultimately childish of her.

She was on the verge of giving up and telling Ernie to suck her dick when an idea finally popped up. She got up and rushed to write it down, knowing she had it – finally.


	2. An Idea to Knock Ernie’s Socks Off

_Friday, September 23 rd, 2005_

When Ernie Macmillan finally sat down, Hermione had been waiting for twenty minutes. She squished her cigarette butt in the ashtray and took a sip of her apple juice while he placed his coat on the back of the chair. The Central London café was certainly an unusual place for such a meeting, but it was one of Hermione’s demands, and she had ensured it was stipulated in her contract. She hated that cramped little office Ernie had in the middle of Diagon Alley – it was too central, too visible, and she breathed better in the Muggle world. After silently casting the _Muffliato_ charm, Hermione extended her arm and shook her editor’s hand.

“Hermione, good to see you,” he greeted, his trademark ambitious smile in full view.

“Hi, Ernie. You’re late,” she remarked casually.

“I could say the same for you,” he pointed out. An edge had suddenly appeared in his voice and Hermione shifted uncomfortably on her chair.

“Well, I think you’ll be happy with what I have to offer you today, so the wait is worth it,” she began, before quickly adding, “I think.” Ernie hated confident women, that much she had figured out in the past two years.

“Oh! You’re finally writing that memoir, then! You know, I always knew you’d see the light, Hermione. It’s going to be great – the best book ever published by Macmillan Editions. I’ve actually thought about it quite a lot these past few weeks, and I’m thinking you’d be better off writing about the missing years – you know, those five years after the war when you kind of disappeared, and no one heard from you. It would be a great perspective on–”

“I’m going to stop you right there, boss. I still refuse to write about my life. I’m not some desperate reality TV star anxious to spill her secrets for the world to read. My private life will remain what it has been until now – private,” she interrupted him, dimming the burst of excitement that had appeared in his eye. “ _But_ ,” she emphasized the word for good measure, “I’m sure you’ll think my idea is better. I want to write an investigative piece–”

Unsurprisingly, he interrupted her. “Oh, Hermione, I appreciate the effort, but you’re no journalist. Last I checked, you have a degree in, what’s the name again? … oh … erm, I have it on the tip of my tongue…”

“Arithmancy,” replied Hermione coolly. “But, Ernie…”

“Yes, that’s right, arithmancy! Anyway, my point is: you’re absolutely not in any capacity to write an investigative piece, especially one that would be long enough to fill _an entire book_. No, my dear (Hermione winced at the nickname, which she found awfully condescending), you need to stick to what you know. Muggles, you know, that’s one thing, it’s amusing, sort of innovative in a way, I guess. A memoir about your life would strike gold, of course – you are, after all, the expert on your own life, and people want to know how you became Hermione Granger, War Hero and Most Brilliant Witch of Her Age – especially given that you are, you know, Muggleborn,” recited Ernie, almost like he had learned this speech prior to their meeting.

“What does that mean?” replied Hermione, shocked by the last sentence.

“What is it you do not understand, Hermione?” asked Ernie, arching his perfectly aristocratic eyebrows.

“ _Especially given that I’m Muggleborn?_ Are you saying, _my dearest_ Ernie, that I should not have been able to accomplish the things I did? That people want to know how a person such as myself, an inferior, would succeed?”

Hermione could feel the rage close up her throat. She fought back tears and thought to herself that, despite all she had been through, she was still that vulnerable twelve-year old who cried herself to sleep after being called a _filthy Mudblood._

“Oh, no, Hermione, I… that’s not what I meant, of course…” scrambled the editor, the tips of his ears turning red. Ron’s did the same when he was embarrassed.

Hermione seized the opportunity.

“Right, so back to my idea. Listen to me, Ernie, or I’m taking it somewhere else and, trust me, a lot of publishers would pay good Galleons to have such a thing written, especially by me,” she warned, a low growl making her tone menacing. She hoped he wouldn’t catch on to her bluff – she was usually hopeless at poker.

“I’m listening,” Ernie gulped.

“See,” she smiled, “as I read those stupid reviews written by the _Daily Prophet_ , I realised something: Voldemort may be gone, but our system is still archaic and discriminatory. The Ministry reinstated the death penalty after banning the Dementors to Merlin knows where, our justice system is abysmal, the press is just absurd propaganda, and most Death Eaters were rehabilitated in the blink of an eye. I want to go work undercover in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and get a good look at the innerworkings of the Ministry.” She paused, hoping for some dramatic effect. “The book would include an investigative piece, a critical outlook and a list of reform suggestions. Think about it, Ernie. I may not have studied Law or Political Science, but I fought that injustice first-hand – I’ve lived through it. I understand better than anyone the violence and the repression – and I think having both our names attached to this project could make it explosive. Think of the Galleons, Ernie – I must not be the only one fed up with our current system,” said Hermione passionately.

Happy to have been uninterrupted, she leaned against her chair and reached for her pack of fags. She lit one and waited patiently for him to answer. He seemed to be taking in the magnitude of what she had said. The coffee he had ordered remained untouched for several minutes as he cracked his fingers, seemingly unable to grasp what he heard.

“So,” Ernie finally said, “you want to go undercover? Before we get into the specifics of the book, how would that go? Surely you don’t mean _as yourself_? And you know the Ministry has those detectors to reverse any transformative magic now.”

“I wouldn’t go as myself, no, that would be far too suspicious. I intend on being fully transformed – using Muggle SFX make-up techniques.”

“SF-what?” he replied, confused.

“Well, you see, Muggles can entirely transform themselves using “make-up” – it’s like paint for the face. It includes prosthetics that you can use to add wrinkles, face features, anything you like really. Ron and George loved the idea when I presented it to them – they’ve created an entire set that’s long-lasting, easy on the skin, and light enough that you can wear it for days on end without it hurting. It’s not transformative magic – the magic doesn’t transform; it simply betters the mechanics at hand! It would go undetected by the sensors.”

“I see you’ve already thought about this extensively,” croaked Ernie, baffled by his star author’s audacity.

“It’s this or I’m done writing, Ernie. Either you go along with it, or you can go suck my dick,” simply stated Hermione in response.

He looked shocked and seemed to want to protest, but ultimately relented. “Alright, alright, no need to be so vulgar… why don’t you let me think about it? I’d have to take it to legal to make sure it’s doable, and the specifics have to be sorted out before I can commit to it.”

“That’s fine,” Hermione said.

She got up, dropped five pounds on the table and reached for Ernie’s hand.

“I’ll be waiting for your response. And don’t worry about the coffee, it’s on me,” she said before getting up and leaving. She didn’t wait for him to reply – she knew he was speechless, and she enjoyed it thoroughly.

_Tuesday, September 27 th, 2005_

“You’re not really thinking of doing that, Hermione? Are you?” asked George as he locked up Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes for his lunch break.

“I just got the go-ahead from Macmillan! There’s no way I’m backing down now. Come on, George, I really need your help with this one. And you can’t tell a soul,” exclaimed Hermione, a finger pointed at George’s face.

“Alright, well I’ll see what I can do. Our stocks are pretty low, you know, with Hogwarts having started barely a month ago and all those mischievous children have robbed us of most our wonderful merchandise,” he replied, a smirk on his face.

She gently slapped his shoulder.

“I don’t need your sales pitch. I’m already sold! Just get me what I need, _please_ ,” she begged.

“Alright, alright, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll owl you when it’s ready.”

She smiled.

“Thank you. I better get going, I still have some errands to run. See you at the Burrow on Sunday?”

“Of course. Don’t be late, you know how Mum gets!”

Hermione laughed and waved goodbye, making no promises. She was always tardy on Sundays, mostly to avoid having to have small talk with Ron before they all sat at the table for lunch. It wasn’t that they were on unfriendly terms, not really anyway… things were just awkward, and had been for a while. Ron and Hermione had dated for a couple of weeks the summer that followed the war, but the trauma had taken a toll on both of them, and they’d called it quits amicably. Then, of course… Hermione shook her head, refusing to even think about it.

She headed down Diagon Alley and arrived at Flourish and Botts in record time. She hurried inside the store, regretting her choice to wear a skirt – the weather wasn’t as nice as predicted. She strolled through the shelves, resisting the urge to buy anything that caught her eye. She was on a mission, and an important one at that.

Having finally reached the shelf dedicated to law books, Hermione focused and read each title attentively. She needed to be able to pass off as a secretary in a legal office, some basic knowledge couldn’t hurt her. After a few minutes of perusing, she found what she was looking for – _Magical Law for Dummies_! Inspired by the popular Muggle series, Seamus Finnigan had begun his own version for the wizarding world, and it was a tremendous success. Ernie Macmillan had been trying to get Seamus to switch publishers for years, but it hadn’t worked – not yet, anyway.

Hermione grabbed the book and quickly purchased it before being tempted to empty the store. As soon as she stepped outside, it began to rain heavily – sighing, Hermione grabbed her wand and apparated home. The walk was usually good for her crowded mind, but this weather just wouldn’t do.

As soon as she stepped in her kitchen, Hermione saw a note perched on top of her counter. Someone had owled her – Macmillan, she assumed. He was the only one who did these days.

Hermione grabbed the letter and sat down. She carefully opened it – it didn’t look like Ernie’s usual letters – it wasn’t written on a pretentious parchment with flowery handwriting. Intrigued, Hermione leaned forward and began reading.

“ _Hermione,_

_I know it has been a long time, but I was hoping we could catch up sometime. I know you’re always at the Burrow on Sundays, but neither Ron nor I have managed to talk to you. It’s been a long time coming, but I would like to sit down with you and talk about everything that has happened in the past years. It seems there’s still a lot we don’t know, and I’m worried. I know you’ve bounced back since publishing those books, but I feel like I’ve lost you, and I’d like for us to mend fences. Please don’t think Ginny is making me write this – I know you know she’s been riding me (no pun intended) about getting in touch with you. I legitimately think it’s time._

_Harry”_

Hermione fought back tears as she read the short missive. She was touched, of course, but she wasn’t ready to delve into that past – it was still too painful. Two years had passed since she had resurfaced, and she hadn’t yet had the courage to deal with this past. It was still too fresh. She was at a loss – something that never happened to the infamous Hermione Granger.

She took in a deep breath and reached for her stationery set. She picked out green paper, a black ballpoint pen, and wrote back.

_“Dear Harry,_

_Thank you for taking this step in my direction. Please know how deeply touched I am, and how much I appreciate this gesture. I love you with all my heart._

_I am, however, not ready. I promise you that I will be – one day. I hope that day will come soon enough, but, for now, I can’t get into all of this. I’m happy to see you all every Sunday, to show you that I care about you all, especially Ron, Ginny, and you, Harry. There will come a time when we will all sit down and I will spill the beans, so to say. I hope you can forgive my silence. I hope you can forgive the wait I’m putting you through. I love you and always will._

_Hermione”_

She dropped her pen, her hand shaking. This was all the courage she could muster – so much for being a Gryffindor. She read the letter, once. Twice. A million times. It hurt to put her friends through this, but some things needed time and patience to come to a peaceful resolution – she could only hope they would be there at the end of the tunnel. And, if not, she would just have to come to terms with her loss – it was, after all, her fault entirely. Well, _mostly_ anyway.

_Monday, October 3 rd, 2005_

Lunch at the Burrow had been unusual, to say the least. Hermione hadn’t heard from either Harry or Ron since sending her reply and had been surprised to see they weren’t there.

“Harry was called on a mission at the very last minute and Ron is feeling ill,” had said Molly upon seeing Hermione’s confused face.

Fleur had talked her ear off about some new celebrity singer, while Bill had eaten the large pile of raw meat Molly had prepared for him. Hermione had felt uneasy sitting amidst the Weasleys without her two closest friends – like she was intruding on them. She had never been there without at least Ron to accompany her – sure, she had barely talked to him in the past few years, but his presence was always reassuring.

“Hermione, are you listening?” asked Ernie, tearing her from her reminiscence.

“Oh, yeah… err… of course. What were you saying?” she asked absentmindedly.

“I was saying I have your new identity all prepped. You start this afternoon, so I wish you would pay attention!”

“I’m sorry. I’m all ears.”

“Right. You’ll be Sally Bloom, secretary in the solicitors’ office at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. You graduated from Hogwarts in 2000, and you were in Hufflepuff. You have a Muggle father and a Muggleborn mother. You studied Ancient Runes with a minor in stenography at the London University for Wizards. Is that clear? Can you remember everything?”

“Sure, Ernie. It’s fine. Is there anything else I need to know?”

“Well, you’ll be working for a specific solicitor, but I haven’t been able to get his name yet. You’ll find out once you’re there. Please make sure your wag–”

“Wig,” corrected Hermione automatically.

“Yes, your wig, please make sure it’s attached properly. Wouldn’t want you revealing that unique hair of yours on day one.”

“Of course. I’ve had enough practice putting on the wig and the prosthetics, I’ll be fine. Please trust me.”

“I do, Hermione,” he replied, unconvincingly. “Now, a last word of warning. This book of yours will be controversial, and the Ministry will be out for your head once it’s published. Infiltrating the Ministry, it’s… well, it’s bold, and quite possibly illegal. The legal department is ready to protect you when the time comes but, _please,_ Hermione, I beg of you, do not make any rash or impulsive decisions. You need to be as discrete and innocent as you can possibly be. Please don’t get into that habit of Harry’s to land oneself in trouble.”

“I understand. I promise I’ll be careful,” responded Hermione, realising, possibly for the first time, how risky this was proving to be.

Ernie croaked. “Well, then, I guess it’s time for you to go. You start in an hour.”

“I’ll keep you updated.”

“Yes, well, please do,” he replied solemnly.

Hermione got up, gathered her coat and her purse, and headed for the door. Just as she was about to leave, she heard Ernie let out a cough.

“Oh and uh, Hermione? Best of luck to you.” For the first time since she met him at Hogwarts, Hermione felt that he was being sincere.

She nodded in his direction and briskly walked out of the office. She gave her attire another look – a tight pink pantsuit, white leather boots, a lavender purse. This was decidedly against all that she stood for – which made the disguise that much more convincing. George had also done an amazing job with the prosthetics – she was wearing a blonde wig, styled in a shoulder-length bob, her freckles were covered, her nose was longer, her lips fuller and her eyes, somehow, bigger. She resembled a doll that wasn’t made _quite right_ – it was such a plain look that she doubted anyone would question her identity as Sally Bloom, former Hufflepuff.

She walked in the Ministry and handed her newly made ID badge. The security guard nodded and showed her to the sensors – which she passed flawlessly because her idea, as usual, had been utterly brilliant. Smiling to herself, Hermione sailed through and followed the Ministry map Ernie had given her. She went into the elevator, pressed the _Department of Magical Law Enforcement_ button and, soon enough, she had reached her destination.

“Hi,” she greeted as she walked over to the receptionist. “I’m Sally Bloom, I start today – can you tell me where I need to go? Thank you.”

Without lifting her head from the _Witch Weekly_ she was reading, the receptionist pointed her finger to an office in the right-hand corner. Hermione thanked her with a nod, which she doubted was seen, and walked over to the door, her confidence filling every step she was taking. A confidence which faltered as soon as she saw the name on the door.

_Draco Malfoy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those of you who have made it here! Next chapter will be a flashback. I should be going back and forth between the past and present throughout the story. See you next week!


	3. Hermione and the Never-ending Issues

_Sunday, August 30 th, 1998_

It had been a hot summer. Hot, humid, and unbearably heavy. Hermione, possibly for the first time in her entire life, had enjoyed the warm weather. It distracted her from her insipid and painful reality.

Since the war had ended, it had been nothing but pointless interviews, useless ceremonies, idiotic awards – plainly put, she was now a celebrity and she absolutely loathed every minute of it. It reminded her of that dreadful fourth year, when her friendship with Harry and her _whatever_ with Viktor were put under constant scrutiny by the tabloids. Sure, the press was rather positive this time around, but Hermione couldn’t say it made things better. She just hated being under the spotlight and wished she would be left alone to mope around and read, like any teenager-who-survived-through-a-horrific-war-and-was-essentially-a-child-soldier-and-had-to-walk-all-over-England-to-find-a-man’s-literal-soul-pieces.

Harry coped better than her – and, she hated to admit it, with much more grace than she would ever be capable of. He had years of experience to deal with this, of course, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating to her. She had hoped to learn to act more like him by reading psychology books, but, so far, nothing had helped.

Ron, however, truly _basked_ in the glory. He enjoyed everything about the attention – well, mostly, he enjoyed that it was attention at all. If she hadn’t heard him cry over his loss of Fred at night, Hermione would be shocked to see him so chipper. She knew it was his way of coping – probably with some classic overcompensation and denial thrown in the mix, but what did she know? She was no therapist. Either way, it had been the deciding factor when ending their relationship. The trauma they’d both been through had already taken a pretty severe toll on them, but surely they could have managed to hold it together and help each other through it, right? (This is what Hermione chose to believe anyway.) Surely they could have… but they were never in the same place. He went to every interview, every award ceremony, every gala thrown his way. Hermione, on the other hand, only went to those she felt were implicitly mandatory, at the very least to get the press off her back. In the end, Ron and Hermione never were here for one another – so they broke it off. Since that moment, she remained holed up at the Burrow, using the break-up as an excuse to avoid any public attention. It was strange being alone in the Burrow – Ginny, Molly and George were in China to honour some of Fred’s last wishes, Arthur was at St Mungo’s recovering from a nervous breakdown, Charlie was back in Romania, and Bill had returned to Shell Cottage with Fleur. Percy’s whereabouts were unknown and had been for quite a while – he promised to get in touch when he was ready and had since disappeared. The Burrow had thus been left unoccupied – except for Harry, Ron and Hermione, who decided it was best they spent the summer together. Hermione didn’t know whether she regretted this decision or not. Being the only capable one of the three, and the only _woman_ , she was left in charge of everything. She did the grocery shopping, learnt the housekeeping spells, made sure there was always food on the table and clean laundry in their drawers. Part of her felt like this dynamic was unacceptable, but the housework kept her busy – it kept her mind from spiralling down what she could only imagine was a rabbit hole she never wanted to visit. She sometimes used Muggle techniques to clean, enjoying the feeling of her hands holding a sponge, scrubbing a floor, and inhaling in the intoxicating chemical fumes. On days where the heat hit her especially hard, she enjoyed manual labour even more – feeling her clothes drenched in sweat, her muscles flinch from the heat exhaustion, her brain turn dizzy was a welcome break from the usual tornado of thoughts she had going on. She knew the pain had to be dealt with, at some point. She was letting it fester for as long as she could, unable to admit she was terrified to be truly faced with it.

On that particular Sunday morning, she was sitting in the garden, enjoying a secret vice she had picked up over the summer: smoking. Oh, sure, she knew it was a terrible habit, and she would probably regret even starting eventually, but, for now, she grasped onto what little comfort she could get. The grey smoke provided an illusion she didn’t know she had to part with – it masked her true lack of coping mechanism, it only pretended to be what she needed. No matter – Hermione had gotten into a habit of delaying the inevitable. After all, the rush of the chase and the pressure to destroy Voldemort were gone: what was there left that she’d have to hurry for? Hermione lived her post-war life essentially as one would wait for death. Nothing mattered anymore. The loneliness and the trauma were burning through her faster than the tobacco she had taken a liking to.

Ron suddenly emerged from the house, his hair dishevelled and his eyes only half-open.

“Hey, Hermione, don’t you have that thing tomorrow?” he asked while trying to stifle a yawn.

“Do you mean university orientation?” she replied.

“Yeah… that…”

“It’s tomorrow at 9, at the London University for Wizards. But what does it matter, Ronald? I thought Harry and you were going into Auror training in a couple of weeks?”

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet and rubbed his eyes.

“Well, I, uh… I don’t want to anymore. I was thinking of getting a business degree and joining George in running the joke shop. Merlin knows he needs the help since… you know…” he trailed off.

Hermione smiled. “I understand. You can come with me tomorrow, if you’d like.”

He nodded in his half-asleep state and turned back, probably to make some coffee. Hermione stretched and squished her cigarette butt in the makeshift ashtray she had made using an old jar of tomato sauce. She got up and joined her friends in the kitchen. She sat down next to Harry and patiently waited while Ron poured them each a cup of coffee. This was the only task he ever did around the house – he found Hermione’s coffee to be far too strong and Harry’s to be simply dreadful.

“What should we do to celebrate your last day of vacation?” asked Harry, who had turned to face both Ron and Hermione.

“I was thinking we’d first deal with our living arrangements for next year,” suggested the latter.

“Come on ‘Mione, that’s boring as heck,” whined Ron.

“Easy for you to say! You have a permanent room here. I’m not staying at the Burrow once your family is back,” she protested.

“You know Mum would let you stay.”

“Well, I don’t want to. We’ve already discussed this. I need to focus on my studies, and, no offense Ron, but there’s just too much ruckus around here. Besides, in what room would I even sleep? Ginny and I are too old to be bunking like we’re still Hogwarts students,” she insisted, tired of having this argument. This was the third time this month.

“Fine,” said Harry to keep the peace. “Hermione, I’ll go apartment hunting with you, and then, this afternoon, maybe we could all go out or something? I hear there’s a Hogwarts themed evening at the Leaky Cauldron. It could be fun!”

Hermione passively nodded. She wasn’t interested in the least, but she knew she had to compromise.

“I’ll go get dressed and we can go, alright Harry?”

“Sure. See you in a minute.”

When Hermione was dressed, she found Harry waiting for her outside the Burrow. He grabbed her hand and they apparated in Diagon Alley.

“So,” said Harry, “I’m guessing you have a list of places all lined up?”

“I actually already found an apartment. Did you really think I’d get to it at the very last minute? I just couldn’t find it in my heart to tell Ron until it was absolutely necessary.”

“Oh. Of course. Where is it, then?” he asked.

“It’s a little ways down here. Let’s go.”

They headed towards the Leaky Cauldron, and Hermione could tell Harry was surprised when they entered Muggle London. He remained silent, and Hermione didn’t offer up any explanation – they walked for about seven to eight minutes before reaching a grey building. The sculpting on the trim was carved in old stone, a flawless work of art, and the entrance was composed of a double oak front door. The windows were large, with heavy curtains preventing nosy passers-by from looking in. Hermione took out her key and typed in the code written on the keychain. The door clicked and she pushed it – inside, the floors were polished concrete, metal mailboxes lined the right wall and led to a large staircase made of dark wood. An elevator was crammed next to it, probably built much later. Hermione led Harry in, and she asked him to push on the fifth-floor button. Once they were arrived, she led him to door number 57. She opened it and he walked in after her. Inside, Scandinavian furniture lined the walls.

“This is it,” finally said Hermione.

Harry jotted her a look before asking all the questions that had piled up in his mind. “How did you get this place? Isn’t it expensive? Also, why Muggle London? Why not Diagon Alley?”

Hermione sighed. “I don’t want to live in Diagon Alley. My parents are gone, Harry – I would just be abandoning my entire Muggle heritage if I immersed myself completely in the wizarding world. I was even still on the fence about going to a wizarding university, but I don’t think my Hogwarts degree would get me an acceptance letter from the London School of Economics.”

Harry looked a little taken aback. Hermione knew he was entirely unattached to his Muggle upbringing – after all, it had only brought him an onslaught of abuse and violence. Magic was his salvation. Hermione felt differently – her parents had loved her very much, and she would have been perfectly satisfied with a Muggle life had she not been a witch. She was willing to compromise, but she needed to maintain a link to both worlds.

“As to buying this place – yes, I bought it,” she added when seeing the surprised look Harry gave her, “I sold my parents’ place before we left for the Burrow last summer. And I put all their savings, along with the house’s sale money, in a trust, accessible only to me when I turned 18. I have enough to cover my education, and maybe a little superficial expense here or there. I’ll be fine.”

“I thought… well, I thought you’d be returning to see your parents at some point,” hesitated Harry.

“How could I? Did Gilderoy Lockhart ever recover his memory? An obliviated memory can only be recovered with powerful Dark Magic, Harry. And even then… it damages the brain, it breaks you. I could never do that to them. No, I’m alone now. That’s how it ought to be anyway,” she replied, her voice breaking as she did. She brushed off the tears that had gathered at the corner of her eyes.

“Anyway,” she added, her voice authoritative, “what do you think?”

“It’s nice,” gently said Harry. “I think you’ll like it here.”

Her voice softened. “I do too.”

They stood there awkwardly for a bit, in complete silence. Hermione knew it was unreasonable to ask of Harry to understand what she was going through – sure, he had lost his parents too, but the circumstances were so different this is where the similarity began and ended. Hermione had known her family for nearly eighteen years – she knew them, loved them, had spent times, both good and bad, with them. Now, not only were they gone, but they had no memory of the love they once shared. Harry’s parents, wherever they were, be it Heaven or some other form of afterlife, dearly remembered him – they had died loving him, they had died _because_ they loved him. She discretely reached for a tissue and blew her nose.

“Well, don’t we have that thing at the Leaky Cauldron?” she asked, trying to appear cheerful.

“It starts tonight at seven,” replied Harry awkwardly, “maybe we should head back to the Burrow and spend some time with Ron before going?”

“That sounds like a good idea. Let’s head out, there are too many protective charms placed on this apartment for us to apparate from here.”

They left the apartment and Hermione locked the door before taking Harry’s hand and apparating back to the Burrow. Ron was still in the kitchen, reading a pamphlet.

“Oh, hey, you guys weren’t gone long. How did it go?” he asked, his head turning to face them.

“It was great. I already found something. I’m moving in tomorrow morning before going to orientation.”

Ron looked disappointed.

“Oh. Well, okay.”

“What are you reading there?” asked Harry to defuse the growing tension.

“The university pamphlet. Hermione left a couple on our bedside tables at the beginning of the summer, but I hadn’t gotten to them yet.”

“I knew I was right to take a couple more! How are you finding it, Ron?”

“It looks great. The Magical Business degree is pretty perfect for me, actually. I just don’t know how I’ll afford the tuition… we could barely scrape together enough money to pay for Hogwarts as it is, and this costs like three times more!”

“There’s a financial aid office,” smiled Hermione, “you just need to set up an appointment tomorrow and they’ll help you out. Besides, aren’t you the great Ron Weasley, destroyer of Horcruxes, now? I’m sure they’d be glad to let you go free of charge, if just for the sake of publicity.”

Ron smiled and hugged her. “Thank you, ‘Mione. Thank Merlin you’re a know-it-all pain in the arse.”

She hugged him back, knowing he wasn’t trying to insult her, but rather to compliment her. Soon, Harry joined them, and they held to each other tightly, in complete silence. It had been hard for Hermione to connect with them over the summer – she had felt so alone, so lost. For the first time since the war ended, she felt loved and surrounded. It made her regret her choice to live alone, but she knew it was the right thing to do. That very thought made her latch onto them tighter.

“Ow, Hermione,” laughed Ron, disengaging from their hug.

Her cheeks turned red. “Sorry, didn’t mean to.”

Ron laughed again and was quickly followed by both Hermione and Harry. Once their laughter died down, they decided to play Exploding Snap. At 6 o’clock, Harry reminded them of the upcoming festivities at the Leakey Cauldron, and they scrambled to get ready, picking out their most flattering red and gold outfits. Hermione chose her favourite red dress and added gold barrettes to her hair, offered to her by her mother when she had turned seventeen. She patiently waited by the door, knowing Harry had gotten into a habit of wearing too much gel to tame his hair. She hated that look, but he assured her it was _en vogue_ (it wasn’t, he was just helpless). Thankfully, when she finally saw his head poking downstairs, it looked more toned down than it usually did.

“I hid his stash,” whispered Ron once Harry was out of earshot.

She stifled a laugh and followed them both outside. No part of her was enthusiastic about the upcoming evening, but she did feel a little bit better about it than she had this very morning. Harry was right – it was, after all, her last day of vacation, and she might as well try to enjoy it.

They arrived at The Leaky Cauldron at seven o’clock, on the dot. The bar was already packed. Most of the patrons had done like Hermione, Ron and Harry – they were wearing their house clothing. A few had even taken it further by wearing their school uniform.

“I’ll go get us drinks,” said Hermione cheerfully.

She asked them for their orders and made her way to the bar, though with great difficulty. Never before had she seen The Leaky Cauldron this busy – the world was changing too fast to her liking. Thankfully, nobody seemed to notice or even recognize her, which gave her the very privacy she had missed every time she’d been out in public for the last three months.

“Hey, Tom!” she yelled.

“Oh… Oh! Hi, Hermione,” he replied once his head turned.

“Two shots of Fire whiskey and a Butterbeer, please,” she asked while placing nine Sickles on the counter.

He nodded, grabbed the coins, and came back with her order. She carefully balanced the two shot glasses on one hand and grabbed the Butterbeer with the other. She managed to make a couple of steps unharmed. Breathing out in relief, she relaxed her stance – a mad move on her part. The very next second, a tall man pushed her aside and her hand released the Butterbeer, which splashed all over the man in front of her.

“ _Fuck_ , does your ditzy brain know how much a dragon-skin suit like that costs?” he yelled as he turned to her.

Her eyes widened in horror before he even faced her. She recognized that voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting a bit early this week because my class schedule is super busy until Friday evening. I've proofread this a thousand times, but I still might have missed something. Please don't hesitate to point out any spelling mistakes/missing words you might see.  
> See you next week!


	4. Draco's Boring Paperwork

_Monday, October 3 rd, 2005_

The last time Hermione had felt this much tension in her neck and shoulders, she had been levitated to the infirmary by Harry, having paralyzed her upper body. She took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders – this mission was too important her for her to fail it on day one because of what was, in the grand scheme of things, just a blip. And a small one at that.

She knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

She pushed the door and walked in.

“Mr Malfoy? I’m your new secretary, Sally Bloom,” she said softly, hoping her disguise was efficient enough that he wouldn’t recognize her voice.

He lifted his head from the document he was reading.

“Ah, yes, they told me you were starting today. Your desk is over there,” he said, gesturing towards an empty desk on his right. “The… what do they call it already? … erm… ah, yes… the telephone. The telephone should be set up during the week, though I doubt you’ll have much use for it. I do not get many calls.”

Hermione placed her purse on the desk and pulled out her stationary items and a water bottle. She noticed Draco’s shadow moving and looked at him. He had some files in his hand.

“I’ll let you familiarise yourself with this paperwork. I was told you’re knowledgeable in magical public law?”

“That’s right. I’m no expert, but I know enough to understand the general jargon, as well as the specificities of some areas,” she responded quietly as she grabbed the files.

“Such as?”

“Mostly magical creature rights, though I’m also versed in constitutional rights.”

“That will do. Well, not magical creatures because, as you know, there is another department dealing with those issues. Anyway…” he hesitated, which she found strange. She didn’t remember him being this mild-mannered. “Please do as much of this as you can today, it’ll give me an opportunity to figure out what you can handle. I expect you to read through the documents, correct any mistakes you might see, and address them to the correct people. I’ve included a list of everyone in the department in the first file. They then have to be sent out on your way out – Marina, the receptionist, handles that.” He paused. “Another thing. Your contractual trial period ends in two weeks. I have to warn you, I’m a very demanding man. If you do not prove yourself to be capable of handling the work I ask of you, I’ll have to let you go,” he concluded sternly.

There he was, the Draco she knew.

“I won’t disappoint, I can assure you.”

“That’ll be for me to tell.”

He sat back at his desk, and it was like she had disappeared entirely. This was probably the best Hermione could hope for – she needed as much autonomy as possible for her research to go smoothly. She removed her jacket, placed it on the back of her chair and sat down, opening the first file on top of the pile. She had never worked as a secretary, but she chatted enough with Ernie’s assistant to understand the basics. She had also heavily researched what solicitors’ assistants and secretaries did on a daily basis to know what was expected of her – could she really claim to be Hermione Granger if it had been any other way?

She quickly worked through the files, finishing with the last one with only minutes to spare. He was right – he was a demanding man.

When she finally lifted her head from her desk, she noticed he hadn’t changed positions. He had remained, as she had, glued to his desk, hunched over piles of paperwork. She was surprised to notice he had gotten about as much work done as she had – he had never shown anything this much dedication before.

“Mr Malfoy?” she asked.

“Hmm?” he replied, still entranced by whatever he was reading.

“I’m done. Is there anything else you would like me to deal with before I leave?”

His head jolted up in surprise.

“You finished… _the entire pile_?” he asked, seemingly astounded.

“Well, yes. Should I have done less than that?” She shot him a quizzical look.

“No, no, of course not… I did not expect you to get this far, is all. I would have been happy with half of that. But this… this is good. I, well, I expect you to keep up with that rhythm from now on.” He paused and gave her a long look – he seemed to be searching for something. “You…” he began, before trailing off. He seemed deep in thought.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

He quickly snapped out of it.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. You just remind me of someone… but… no, it’s idiotic, forget it. I’ll see you tomorrow. 8 A.M. sharp,” he said.

She jotted him a worried look. Had he figured out who she was? No, surely not, he couldn’t have. She didn’t have a reason to be there… not one he knew or could ever know, anyway.

Hermione decided pondering about this wasn’t worth the effort. If he really had figured out her identity, she would know soon enough. She grabbed the files and left without another word. As she placed them on the receptionist’s desk, she wondered whether now was the right time to get a little exploration done. She decided against it – she was new, she had no reason to wander around. Better wait for her to be acquainted with other people in the Department, so as not to appear suspicious.

She left the Ministry feeling dizzy. It had been over two years since she had interacted this much with Draco – and, yet, it felt very different. Mostly, of course, because he thought he was addressing Sally Bloom, his employee… but, partly, also, because he felt like a different man. She couldn’t remember him ever being this calm and collected. He appeared to have become, for lack of a better word, rather boring. Ordinary, even – something she had never, in a million years, expected to call Draco. Even at their best, when things were smooth sailing and butterflies in the sky, he was interesting, entertaining, even amusing at times. The man she had been faced with today was none of those things – he seemed like he had given up, like nothing mattered anymore. She found that strange, especially given his highly publicized upcoming nuptials with Astoria Greengrass. Every day, a new article would come out in _Witch Weekly_ , dissecting their choice of flowers, who had been lucky enough to be invited, whether Narcissa Malfoy and Amalthea Greengrass got along, how much the decorations would cost… Hermione tried to avoid reading them as often as she could, but she had to admit that, at times, her curiosity got the better of her. Astoria was regularly pictured in the glossy pages of the magazine, gracefully pacing around various boutiques, her gigantic diamond ring in full view. On particularly bad days, Hermione ripped those pages apart and cried herself to sleep. It wasn’t that she had any lingering feelings for Draco – she had never had any feelings for him. It was simply hard seeing him move on so gracefully, while she was still completely broken. He had a cushy job, a beautiful fiancée, a life worth living, all traces from his past having been erased. She was publishing books no one really cared about, and she was more alone than she had ever been. Hermione hated her life, but she hated even more the fact that she only had herself to blame. She had chosen this loneliness, and, now, all that was left for her was to live with it and to embrace it fully. She thought back to Harry’s letter and regret filled her guts. Her friends had tried – they were still trying. And she was leaving them hanging… because she was ashamed, because she was scared, because, in the seven years since the war ended, she had managed to keep avoiding facing the pain head-on. She had let it fester for so long it was now too big and too monstrous for her to handle.

Feeling overwhelmed, Hermione quickly ran out of Diagon Alley and reached for her pack of cigarettes. She never felt comfortable smoking in wizarding London – it felt forbidden. She walked back to her apartment, a cigarette in hand. The smoke snaked its way to her lungs, filling her with relief. She slowed her pace, letting Muggle London guide her back home. She was thankful for her choice, seven years ago. Living in Diagon Alley would have been torture.

Once inside her apartment, she immediately removed the prosthetics, the wig and changed her clothes. She grabbed a cotton pad, covered it in micellar water and began removing her make-up. She walked over to the kitchen, intending to throw out the pad in the trash, when she noticed a note waiting on her countertop. Her insides twisted immediately upon seeing it, and she decided to make herself a cup of coffee before reading it. She dreaded opening it – what if it was Harry’s response? Was he definitively closing the book on their friendship? Was he berating her for refusing to open up to him? She paced back and forth, her fuming cup of coffee burning her fingertips. She didn’t let it go – the burn kept her grounded.

Finally, having waited long enough, she removed the seal and opened the letter. She was surprised to see it was from none other than Draco Malfoy.

“ _Ms Bloom,_

_I realised after you left that I forgot to mention a crucial part of your job. I’m sorry for reaching out to you after work hours, and promise this will not happen again, but I need to let you know this before you come into work tomorrow._

_As stipulated in your contract, your primary mission is to review files, case briefings, and do preliminary legal research when needed. It also involves answering the telephone, though, as I have told you already, this will not happen often, if at all. I remain somewhat old school and do most of my dealings through owl – please do not take this as disdain towards Muggle methods, as I find them quite innovative. I’m just finding it hard to adapt._

_More to the point, you will find that my fiancée will try to solicit you to help her out with wedding planning. She has managed to get to my previous secretaries before I could let them know – hence this letter. Please know that you are in no way to participate to these proceedings – I require my secretaries to only deal with work-related matters, of which my private life is not. A crucial part of your mission, then, will be to refer to me every time Ms Greengrass deems it appropriate to reach out to you. I shall deal with it myself thereafter._

_I hope this letter finds you well. Best regards, and congratulations on a job well done today._

_Mr Malfoy_ ”

Hermione sighed in relief. This showed no indication that he knew who she was. She folded the letter and hesitated – should she reply? She was going to see him tomorrow; did she really need to let him know _right this second_ that she had read and understood his missive? It seemed a bit excessive but, then again, he had found it necessary to reach out to her after work hours rather than in the morning.

Feeling irritated with herself, Hermione decided to draft a short response. He would think nothing of it – after all, he thought her to be Sally Bloom, his new secretary. She grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, dismissing her usual pen and paper. She didn’t need to create any unnecessary confusion.

“ _Mr Malfoy,_

_Understood. I will see you tomorrow, at 8 A.M._

_Best regards,_

_Ms Bloom_ ”

She leaned back in her chair. She would have to send it through the Owl Office – Draco knew Flamel, her owl, having previously met him. Sighing, she finished her coffee and grabbed her purse, heading out for the second time that day.

By the time she reached the Owl Office, she found them closing. She desperately knocked on the door before an employee of small stature begrudgingly opened the door.

“We’re closed,” he stated, visibly irritated.

“Oh, come on!” Hermione exclaimed. “I’ll pay extra, _please_.”

He huffed and puffed but ultimately relented, letting her in before closing the door again. She quickly attached her letter to a random owl, paid double the fee, and added a three-Sickle tip for good measure.

“Thank you!” she waved as she left the office, feeling relieved. The employee nodded unenthusiastically as he pocketed the change and locked the door, this time for good.

Hermione felt a sudden surge of energy blow through her. She didn’t want to be home so soon – it was still light out, and she was too depressed to be alone again. Besides, nothing interesting ever aired on the telly on Monday nights – not even on _arte_ , the intellectual Franco German channel she enjoyed every now and then. She checked her watch – 7 P.M., still plenty of time for her to wander around Diagon Alley.

She decided to head to Cinemagic and check out their new releases. The wizarding world had taken some time to adapt to Muggle technology – she was surprised to see it had at all happened, actually. And yet… two years ago, Dean Thomas had unveiled the first ever magical movie theatre. There were yet to be a lot of films, though Muggle releases were immensely popular. Dean had managed to adapt Muggle technology to his wizarding abilities and transformed the films into fully immersive experiences – you weren’t just _watching_ ; you were _in the film_. Some wizarding films were produced every now and then, but they were nowhere near as successful as Muggle films, as wizards were still learning to grasp the craft.

Hermione walked in and saw that _Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_ had finally been given the wizarding treatment. She excitedly purchased a ticket and walked in the room. There were only a couple of seats left to choose from, the remaining twenty having been filled already – Cinemagic adapted its number of seats to the number of tickets purchased. She sat down on the lower left hand of the row, leaving two empty seats between herself and the closest spectator.

Hermione breathed in heavily the sweet air and felt herself relax. Her parents had been the biggest fans of the _Lord of the Rings_ saga and had read all the books to her as a child. She remembered how ecstatic they had been when they had heard a film adaptation was finally coming – sadly, her plan to protect them meant she could never see it with them. She owned all the VHS tapes and watched them on the Sundays when their absence felt too heavy for her to bear in silence. She liked to believe that, wherever they were now, they enjoyed those films as much as she did.

Lost in her reminiscence, Hermione didn’t notice the two seats next to her being filled. A whispered “sorry” brought her out of her reverie and she turned her head. She regretted it immediately – what were Draco Malfoy and his fiancée doing in a movie theatre?

Hoping they hadn’t noticed her, Hermione pulled her sweater’s hood over her head and sank back in her seat. She begged the film to start as soon as possible – once it would start, they wouldn’t be able to tell she was there. For the time being though, Draco had every chance to notice her presence, especially with that hair of hers poking out of the hoodie. And, as luck would have it, notice her he did.

“Granger?” whispered a hush voice.

She cursed his observant eyes.

“Oh, hey. Didn’t notice you there, Malfoy,” she replied, intent on looking as detached as humanly possible.

“Why are you here?” he asked, a distressed pitch betraying him.

“Why are _you_ here? It doesn’t seem like the kind of place you and Astoria would enjoy,” she responded, angry that he would question her right to be there. Besides, he _knew_ how much she liked _Lord of the Rings_.

“Draco, honey, I’m going to get us some snacks. Would you like anything specific?” asked Astoria, seemingly oblivious to what was happening right next to her. She turned to face her fiancé. “Oh, hi, Hermione. Always a pleasure to see you.”

Hermione could have laughed. Astoria _definitely_ wasn’t pleased to see her there, but she hid it well.

“I’m fine, Astoria,” replied Draco. She took the hint and left without a word.

“Well?” asked Hermione.

“Astoria insisted we needed to bond more before the wedding. There, are you happy?” angrily said Draco.

“Yeah, I’m over the moon,” sarcastically threw back Hermione, her cheeks having turned red. _So much for composure and detachment_ , she berated herself.

“Listen, how about I pay back what you spent for the ticket and you just leave? No, you know what, I’ll pay you double! You can come back and watch it another time,” whispered Draco.

Hermione could have cried. The fucking nerve of that man.

“I’m staying. Just pretend I’m not here. You’re good at that, aren’t you?” she replied, knowing this would hurt him.

He looked taken aback and said nothing. Satisfied to have won this petty battle, Hermione turned to the screen and ignored him. She felt his body tense up and noticed his hand grip the armrest from the corner of her eye. His knuckles turned white – she felt the urge to place her hand on his but resisted. He wasn’t her problem anymore.

Astoria returned soon after, a couple of pumpkin pasties in one hand, a cup of pumpkin juice in the other. She shot Hermione a dirty look before regaining her seat. Hermione felt herself blush – thankfully, this was the moment the film chose to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will take us back to 1998. I hope you all enjoyed this first interaction between our two love (hate?) birds.  
> See you next week!


	5. Can’t You Snort Some Fucking Empathy? or Hermione’s Greatest Comeback Yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Surprise, the chapter is early!! Two reasons for this, the main one being that I have a pretty big exam coming up next Tuesday, so I have to spend the weekend studying, and the other one being that I have already spent too much time editing this chapter and if I don't post it now I'll drive myself crazy going back to it.

_Monday, August 31 st, 1998_

Ron and Hermione were sitting at the back of the lecture hall – they were tardy, Ron having woken up far too late. The previous night had been wild, and Hermione herself had been too hungover to berate Ron for his inability to get up in time. She had patiently waited in the kitchen while reminiscing the events at the Leaky Cauldron.

After Malfoy had turned to face her, Hermione had found herself speechless. She never expected to see him again, much less in Diagon Alley. It was rumoured that he left to study in Scotland, away from the public eye and the tabloids – neither of which had been favourable to him. Part of her had been relieved to know him so far away, while the rest of her felt it unfair that he was still free to be out in the world. His legal proceedings had been expedited, and he was given a very minor sentence – donating a tenth of his estate to various charity organisations. Though Hermione knew this represented a substantial amount for most people, it didn’t feel like it was enough. Malfoy was still vastly wealthy, and consequences for his actions seemed to escape him – as they always did.

Being face to face with him had brought up all this resentment, but she had kept it bottled up. There was no need to exert herself for this pathetic excuse of a man. She had dismissed his comment with a rude hand gesture and left him high and dry – _well_ , maybe not dry, given that he was covered in butterbeer.

The rest of the evening was a blur. Having been disconcerted by this _mis_ chance meeting, Hermione had drunk herself to oblivion. She had never partied this hard before – in fact, she had never partied, at all. Her Hogwarts days, save for some Voldemort-fighting action and defying-Umbridge protests, had been, all in all, rather tame. It was a surprise, then, to find out she really enjoyed drinking. She enjoyed the giddy feeling alcohol provided her, the heat coursing through her veins. She enjoyed her brain turning off without having to put in strenuous efforts. It was, undoubtedly, the best she had felt in an awfully long time.

“Welcome to you all,” suddenly echoed a voice throughout the lecture hall.

Hermione snapped out of her hungover reminiscence and straightened her back, ready to take notes. The man standing on the podium bore a passing resemblance to Albus Dumbledore, and Hermione wondered for a second whether looking like a stereotypical Merlin was a requirement to become a school director.

“I’m Atlas Jones, president of the London University for Wizards. I’m pleased to see how many of you are interested in joining us this year. I will give you a summary explanation of the university’s rules and expectations, before letting you all join the cafeteria, which has been divided in booths according to the programmes we offer,” began Jones. “Now… the first thing I would like to address is _cheating magic._ Please be aware that, within the halls of this institution, all magic enabling cheating has been disabled. All quills for the examinations will be provided by your professors, and the Cribbing Spell is useless here. In regards to the academic work asked of you at home… all our professors are equipped with Plagiarism-Detecting Magic, which can target even the most obscure of books. Whether it be at home or within the halls of the university, if you are found to be cheating, your expulsion will be immediate.”

He took a pause while the students discussed the news. A wave of chatter spread throughout the auditorium, and Hermione sighed. Did they not expect the university to take any measures against cheating? Hogwarts had, after all.

“I can’t believe they don’t trust us!” muttered Ron next to her.

“Really, Ronald? Wouldn’t you, of all people, cheat, given the opportunity?” responded Hermione, quirking an eyebrow.

“Well… I mean… I always had you to help at Hogwarts, so…” he trailed off, the tips of his ears turning red with embarrassment.

“And when I couldn’t help, you’d try to cheat. I actually remember being the one who told you about the anti-cheating measures for the OWLs, so this can’t come as much of a surprise to you,” she laughed.

His entire face turned red. Hermione laughed harder, unable to contain herself. She noticed a few heads turning towards her and pursed her lips, wishing to remain anonymous. She couldn’t fathom how she had managed to avoid the press this morning, and she wasn’t about to let that go to waste.

“Moving on,” resumed Jones, “I would also like to point out that, while you are all adults, legally speaking, drinking and drug consumption is strictly prohibited within the university. If you are caught drinking, you will be expelled. Drugs, are, as you know, outlawed by the Ministry of Magic, but what you do outside of the university is between law enforcement and yourself. In here, however, if you are caught taking any drugs, you will not only be expelled, but also reported to the appropriate authorities.”

Hermione frowned. It was a well-known fact that treating drugs as a criminal offence rather than a public health issue was misguided and ineffective. The wizarding world truly was antiquated in more ways than one – she couldn’t even remember whether there was such a thing as welfare, so public policies in favour of treating addicts with compassion were obviously out of the question.

“Finally, upon request of the Ministry, we have reinstated our original fees. As some of you may be aware, the university had done tremendous efforts over the past five years or so to lower tuition in order to welcome a greater diversity of students. Unfortunately, recent Ministry policy, passed a couple of weeks ago, has required for all academic institutions to raise their tuition fees by 300%. This means tuition for this year is set at 12,000 Galleons. That will be all,” he concluded before exiting the auditorium.

This last piece of information did not go over well with the prospective students. Some started shouting, others exploded in tears. Next to Hermione, Ron gulped audibly. She grabbed his hand and held onto it tightly.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, “we’ll go to the financial aid office this afternoon. I’m sure we can figure something out.”

It was like he hadn’t heard her.

“Twelve _grand_ Hermione, they’re completely out of their minds! That’s Dad’s salary for _the entire year_. The brochure said 4,000, and that was already _way_ above what my family could afford. What am I going to _do_?” he exclaimed in a panicked voice.

Hermione turned to face him and placed both her hands on his cheeks.

“Listen to me, Ron. You’re going to be fine. If the university won’t help out, I’m sure Harry, George and I can pool enough money together to cover your first year. Bill would also be glad to assist you, I’m sure, especially since he’s making good money at Gringotts. Or maybe you can take out a loan! Alright?”

He nodded silently. She let go of his face and grabbed his left hand with both of hers. The clamour in the lecture hall had died down, and most students were standing up by now. Some of them seemed ready to storm out of the university – surely as displeased as Ron was with the last announcement.

When their row finally began getting up, Hermione pulled Ron up and led him out of the auditorium. She held onto to him until they had reached the cafeteria.

“Let’s go find out more about the business programme, alright? I’m sure it’ll be really interesting,” said Hermione softly. She thought Ron still looked incredibly pale and panicked. Hermione tugged on his hand and moved through the crowd. She looked for the business booth and quickly spotted it down the end of the hall. She was surprised to see that few students seemed interested – only about three had shown up.

“Hello,” said Hermione.

“Hi! I’m Angela,” enthusiastically replied the young woman behind the booth. She wore large glasses, and her hair was styled with long cornrows. “How can I help you today?”

“Err… my friend Ron is interested in joining your programme. Unfortunately, he, err (she hesitated and turned to Ron before continuing), he was a bit shocked to hear that tuition would be this high, so… please forgive his present demeanour,” gently said Hermione.

Angela smiled brightly. “This isn’t a problem, actually. You see, the business programme works on an apprenticeship basis – it’s fairly new, inspired by some Muggle universities! You see, how it works is that you spend half the week in class, and the other half working for a business or company of some kind – you’re given a small salary, and the company covers all your tuition fees! It’s extremely popular in France,” she said while grabbing a bunch of brochures, which she handed to Ron.

Hermione was happy to see he had listened, and his skin had regained a rosy tint. He took the brochures from Angela, a smile on his face.

“So… I wouldn’t have to pay anything?” he asked.

“No, no tuition fees at all! You’re still responsible for all your other expenses, of course, but the apprenticeship does provide you with a salary, which can usually cover most of your basics.”

Hermione smiled.

“Great! Ron, I’m going to leave you with Angela, and check out other programmes, okay? We’ll meet up for lunch in front of the university?”

“Sure, sure,” he said dismissively, his eyes glued to one of the brochures Angela had given him.

Hermione made her way through the crowd, unsure of where she was headed. Despite her brilliant academic record and being sure of wanting to continue her education, she didn’t know what she wanted to study. She was resolved to remain far away from any Defence Against the Dark Arts type of magic – she had given enough of her time and energy to fight evil. This was her time – she could do whatever she wanted!

It then hit her that it wasn’t true… she was interested in the London School of Economics. This is where she had wanted to go since she was a small child. Hogwarts had diverted her plans, and she was now stuck having to study in a field related to magic – and, while she loved magic, she was sad to have to let go of her dream to become either a researcher in political economy or a social worker. She kept wandering around, utterly uninspired. This just wouldn’t do. Feeling overwhelmed, she left the cafeteria. As she was stepping out into the hallway, paying no attention to her surroundings, she bumped into Atlas Jones.

“Oh, Professor Jones, I’m so sorry,” she said, blushing in embarrassment.

“It’s fine, young lady,” he replied as he fixed his robes. He then lifted his head, and his gaze landed on her.

“Oh, Miss Granger, is it?” he asked.

She nodded silently, hoping he’d let it go.

“I am really pleased to know you’d like to study here! Have you found anything you liked? With your reputation and your record, I’m sure any programme would be glad to welcome you with open arms,” he stated.

Hermione wanted to lie – she really did. To this day, she couldn’t tell you why she didn’t.

“Actually, Professor, I… I’m here because I feel like I don’t have a choice. I had my heart set on the London School of Economics, but it’s not like a degree from Hogwarts would ever get me there, you know?”

He shot her a curious look.

“Why, Miss Granger, I would have thought you knew about our Muggle Studies programme!”

“No, I… I don’t want to study _Muggles_ Professor, I want to study _what Muggles study_ ,” she protested.

“This isn’t Hogwarts, Miss Granger. Our Muggle Studies programme isn’t here to teach you about Muggle customs – it’s an immersive programme which allows you to study in the Muggle university of your choice. You’d have some classes here, at the London University for Wizards, in a subject semi-related to your chosen field, and, then, most of your classes at whatever Muggle university you’d like to study in. Changing your transcripts to reflect a Muggle education really isn’t that much of a fuss,” he explained.

Hermione’s face lit up. She had heavily researched the LUW and could not believe she hadn’t heard of this.

“Thank you so much,” she said as she ran back to the cafeteria. She looked for the Muggle Studies booth and pushed her way through the crowd once she spotted it. Not unlike Angela’s booth, it seemed to be largely unpopular, save for a tall blond student. Hermione instantly stopped. She _knew_ that blond hair. She took in a deep breath and decided then and there that she would not care. She was here for her future – something far too important to let a worthless ferret disrupt it.

“Hello,” she greeted the student behind the booth. She noticed Malfoy giving her a surprised look from the corner of her eye, but neither of them said anything.

“Hi! I’m Clarke. What can I help you with?”

“I’d like to study at the LSE. Can you tell me how I can make this happen?” she asked.

“Sure,” replied Clarke. “The boring administrative stuff will be dealt with by the office – all you need to do is to provide them with some documents. Here’s the list. (He handed her a piece of parchment.) Now, because you’d be at LUW, we do require that you take some classes here. You’d graduate with a degree from both universities, which gives you the opportunity to work in either world. The matching classes for the LSE programmes are in Arithmancy. Are you with me so far?” he asked. He lacked Angela’s enthusiasm, but it didn’t matter.

“Right,” he continued once he saw her nod. “So, essentially, you’d be at LSE like a normal Muggle student. That means no magic, obviously, but we do offer some introductory courses to allow you to blend in a Muggle crowd if needed.”

“It’s fine,” replied Hermione, “I’m Muggleborn.”

“Of course. None of the Purebloods of Half-Bloods have any interest for this programme anyway.”

On her right, Malfoy cleared his throat.

“Err… right,” said Clarke, “except for Mr Malfoy here.”

Hermione decided she couldn’t ignore him any longer. She turned to face him.

“I thought you left for Scotland?” she said, unable to repress the tinge of aggressiveness in her voice.

“Come on now, Granger, I thought you were smarter than that. Do you really believe the tabloids? Not that it’d surprise me, given yesterday’s events,” he chuckled. She was outraged at his reference to the butterbeer incident.

“I’m guessing it was wishful thinking on my part, then! How dare I believe you would have the decency to hide far away from here? To avoid showing your face at a university where you would see the very people you tried to murder last year? You’re right, I must have been stupid to think that. It was giving you too much credit. Can’t you snort some fucking empathy?”

He laughed even harder. “Granger, I’m looking at the Muggle Studies programme, aren’t I? Nobody is going to see much of me this year, I promise. Besides, as the only two wizards at the London School of Economics, we might as well make up, don’t you think?”

Hermione looked flabbergasted. What had overtaken him? Was he being… _friendly_? Forget that! Was he truly thinking of going to the same university as her? No… surely he was joking… yes, he only said it to rile her up… that was the only thing that made any sense.

“We hate each other. Let’s keep it that way,” she said, before turning to Clarke. “Thank you. I’ll just take this.”

She grabbed a copy of each of the documents laid out on the table and promptly left the cafeteria, still shocked by Malfoy’s shameless behaviour. How could he act this way? Didn’t anything affect him? Didn’t he feel any remorse? She cursed him silently as she walked out of the university, nearly missing Ron in the interim.

“Hey, ‘Mione!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, Ron, sorry, my mind must have been somewhere else.”

She ruffled through her bag, dropped the brochures in her notebook and grabbed a cigarette. Once it was lit, she turned to Ron. “Should we go get lunch?” she asked.

He acquiesced and they walked out on the street. The London University for Wizards, much like St Mungo’s, was disguised as a decrepit and abandoned building. Once you left, you couldn’t tell that it housed hundreds of students on a regular basis – a dissimulating mechanism ensured Muggle passers-by couldn’t see dozens of people pour out of the building at the same time.

Grabbing Ron’s hand, Hermione led the way. She knew London better then both her friends – Harry had grown up in a distant suburb, while Ron, in addition to living in a rural area, had remained sheltered within the confines of wizarding England.

“I know this great deli just around the corner! They make the best sandwiches, you’ll be pleased,” she smiled as she turned to face him.

They walked for another minute or two. Hermione was still holding Ron’s hand – she found it odd that he hadn’t let it go yet, but, then again, neither had she. Relief washed over her once she spotted the deli place, giving her the perfect excuse to let go.

“I’ll go get our orders; you find a table to sit at. I’m thinking you’d enjoy a beef pastrami sandwich?” she offered.

“Sure. That sounds good.” His voice was surprisingly neutral. Hermione didn’t like what this suggested. She never knew him to sound this way, except when he had something serious to tell her. Frowning, she walked into the deli and ordered two beef pastrami sandwiches. The deli worker handed her a round pager – “it’ll beep when your order is ready”. Hermione nodded and walked back out – Ron had chosen a small table on the far-left corner of the terrace.

“It’ll be ready soon,” she stated as she placed the pager on the table.

“Hmm,” said Ron, looking distracted.

“Are you okay? You’ve been weird since we left orientation.”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay, ‘Mione? I’ve found what I want to study, and I won’t have to pay for that insane tuition. I don’t think I could be doing better,” he replied, turning his head to face her.

“Alright…” she replied, unconvinced.

“Though, if you think I’m acting a little odd, you are probably right. (He seemed to hesitate for a moment, tapping his fingers on the table.) I… I’ve been thinking about us. You’ve been so helpful, so sweet… I thought we’d definitely lost you over the summer. You were so unhappy, I thought maybe you needed the distance. You look better now, so… Maybe… maybe we could get back together?”

There it was – the conversation she had been dreading for a while. Ron wasn’t an expert in the art of subtlety, and she had noticed the looks he gave her, the tremor in his voice when he asked her for something, hoping she’d say yes and thus prove she was willing to try again.

She remained silent for a couple of seconds. The pager suddenly beeped, giving her an out – for the moment.

“Oh! I’ll be right back,” she said, grabbing the pager and nearly tripping over her chair in her hurry to leave the table.

She made her way back to the counter and returned the pager to the worker, who handed her their tray in return. There lay their sandwiches, wrapped in thin baking paper, thicker than she thought she could stomach after the news Ron had given her. She could see the filling – layers of cheese and beef pastrami and lettuce and tomato, with copious amounts of Dijon mustard oozing from the sides. Hermione gulped and carefully walked over to the table – partly to avoid spilling their lunch, but mostly to push back as far as possible the confrontation that awaited her.

“Tada,” she exclaimed, feigning cheerfulness.

Ron didn’t wait for her to sit down before grabbing his sandwich. He already had a mouthful when he decided to ask for her answer.

“So,” he said, loudly swallowing his bite, “what do you think?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably on her chair. She set down her sandwich and knotted her fingers together. “Ron, you know I love you… but not like that. Let’s face it…” she began, “… you and I aren’t in the least bit compatible. In many ways, you were my first love, and I’ll never forget that. Maybe if the war hadn’t happened, maybe if the aftermath hadn’t been so chaotic… I used to believe in us. But, now… I need to focus on my recovery. I need to be alone, for a bit, to figure where I fit into this world. I’m still so broken, and you can’t pretend that you’re healed, either. F… erm… his death is still hard on you… I, just…” she struggled to find her words as she saw her best friend’s face slowly decompose. She couldn’t bear it and nearly took it all back – nearly. Deep down, she knew she was right.

“It’s fine, Hermione,” he said, though she could tell these words were costing him. “You don’t owe me a relationship. I’ll get over it.”

Hearing him being this vulnerable nearly broke her. She bit hard into her sandwich to avoid crying, instantly regretting it – her appetite had been cut right off. She chewed with difficulty and swallowed so slowly she nearly choked.

“Ron, I–”

“Hermione,” he interrupted her, placing his right hand under her chin, “we’re okay. I’m not going to be temperamental; I’m not going to avoid you for weeks; I’m not going to whine. I get it. Maybe a year ago, I would have reacted differently… or even eight months ago… but leaving you guys behind in that forest made me realise how important both your friendships are to me. I can’t ever give up on either Harry or you… (He bit once more into his sandwich.) However, I need you to know this: I will not wait for you. If you’re ready one day, I may not be there anymore,” he concluded.

Hermione was blown away – she had never known Ron to be this mature. Saying she was shocked was an understatement – she was perplexed, she was flabbergasted, she was astounded, she was astonished.

“Thank you. It means a lot,” she responded honestly.

She happily bit into her sandwich. Her appetite was restored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This really isn't my favourite chapter, but I've spent so much time editing it at this point and I don't know how to make it any better. I need it to set the scene for the upcoming events in the flashbacks... I hope you can enjoy it though! I also hope Ron doesn't seem too OOC lmao. I personally believe the war has matured him in many ways, and I was trying to convey that.   
> I'll update with the next chapter (set in 2005) on Sunday 25th. Have a nice week-end!


	6. A Potion a Day Keeps the Ministry Away

_Tuesday, October 25 th, 2005_

Hermione had been working as Sally Bloom for a little over three weeks. She couldn’t pretend she tremendously enjoyed the work, but it kept her mind busy, which she was grateful for. Her working relationship with Draco was fine. He appreciated the work, remained civil and warded off Astoria – she couldn’t have asked for more. Her book research, however, was going much better than she could have hoped for. Having familiarised herself with the Ministry and made friends in other departments, she could come and go as she pleased without any suspicion being drawn to her. Her notebook was filled with various remarks – some mundane, others of vast importance.

Hermione had come to learn that nepotism was the only true way forward, regardless of the department. Unqualified workers roamed the hallways, having been recommended by an uncle or the mother of a close friend. In fact, of those who held any power at all, she counted one Half-Blood and no Muggleborns. It wasn’t entirely news to her – after all, the Wizengamot held a fairly nefarious reputation, which predated even her days at Hogwarts. What surprised Hermione, though, was the astonishing lack of diversity within the Ministry. She would have thought that, in the last seven years, more Muggleborns would have reached positions of, at the very least, relative power – that wasn’t the case. If your parents were Muggles, you could perhaps hope to become a midlevel manager in a minor department… and, even then, you’d have to come highly recommended by a Pureblood, which seldom happened. Judicial punishment for discrimination against Muggleborns had been written in the law, but no concrete steps had been taken yet – it didn’t matter what the law said, it could easily be circumvented by using a variety of excuses other than blood status to refuse a promotion. This, she found, was scandalous in and of itself, of course… but the lasting consequences were actually much bigger than the simple lack of diversity. Depriving Muggleborns of any political power also meant no true change could ever be implemented. The English wizarding world remained an oligarchy – one with no end in sight.

Draco’s work was also enlightening, in its one way – Hermione, being tasked with reviewing case briefings, legal paperwork and research, knew the innerworkings of law-making at the Ministry. To say she found it useless was an understatement – none of the laws Draco was working on were of any interest. They dealt with little things – taxes on imported Butterbeer, fines for parking one’s broom outside of the designated areas, ordinances regulating the amount of Fire Whiskey one could drink before being arrested for “flying intoxicated”. More importantly, though, was what they _didn’t_ deal with. The wizarding world was so caught up in the magic that structured it that it essentially forgot that wizards were people and citizens too – the Ministry of Magic entirely disregarded that fact. There was no welfare, no employment protection, no universal healthcare… Worse than an oligarchy, they lived in a _magical_ oligarchy, which meant issues unconcerned by magic weren’t dealt with or regulated in any way.

That morning, Hermione was drinking her morning cup of coffee at her desk. Draco still wasn’t there, which was odd – in the three weeks she had been working here, he hadn’t been tardy, not even once. She, however, refused to concern herself with his state. He wasn’t her problem anymore.

She had begun working on a new ordinance when the door finally opened – only, it wasn’t Draco.

“Oh, hi, Ms Greengrass. Mr Malfoy isn’t here yet,” said Hermione, standing up.

“I’m aware, Miss Bloom. I think he might have come down with the flu, he was coughing when I saw him yesterday,” replied Astoria dismissively.

It felt like a lie, but Hermione decided to ignore it. “Oh, very well then. How may I help you?”

“I was actually hoping I could talk to you! Draco has been so secretive about you… always telling me I can’t come in and ask you anything… honestly, I find it offensive. Do you mind if we have a little chat?” asked Astoria in a sickly-sweet voice.

Hermione pursed her lips. She knew she couldn’t say no – Astoria had managed to corner her when she knew Draco wouldn’t be able to prevent it.

“Erm… sure. What about?”

“Well, as you probably know, I have a wedding on the way! Oh, it’s going to be a grand affair, everyone who’s anyone will be there, of course. The problem is… (she paused and laughed the most fake-sounding laugh Hermione had ever heard) well… it’s too much work for little ol’ me, isn’t it? I’ve been trying to convince Draco to help, but he’s been very unpleasant about it, always talking about work and how busy he is. I thought to myself “well, how busy can he truly be? He has an assistant to help him!”… which is not something that went over well with him, as you can surely imagine. He became all angry and told me “you are in _no way_ meant to involve my new assistant with this nonsense, it’s already driven away the last three!” and, honestly… I think he’s being overdramatic. I’m sure you can’t have that much work to do, otherwise he wouldn’t be busy, now, would he? So I said to him, well I said “you know, Draco, I’m sure she can handle more than you think her capable of” because, really, isn’t it a little sexist to think a woman can’t both work _and_ plan a wedding? He’s adamant that it’s not the point, but what does a man know about sexism anyway? (There was that laugh again.) Surely you agree with me, don’t you Miss Bloom? (She didn’t wait for Hermione to answer.) Anyway, since Draco isn’t here today, we might as well begin planning!”

Hermione was shocked – Astoria truly was more audacious than she had ever pegged her for.

“Unfortunately, Ms Greengrass, I’m under direct orders from _my employer_ , your fiancé, to stick to the duties handed directly to me by him. I cannot undertake any work that doesn’t revolve around case briefings or legal research. I’m very sorry,” said Hermione, trying to sound as apologetic and submissive as possible – something she wasn’t accustomed to.

“Really? Has he said anything to you about me?” asked Astoria, suddenly sounding much more threatening.

Hermione knew she was on precarious ground. If she revealed the content of Draco’s missive, she risked her employment with him – surely he wouldn’t be happy if she rocked the boat of his relationship. Sure, she hadn’t done anything wrong – but she would be surprised to see him side with his assistant over his fiancée.

“Well, no, not at all! He’s only said that I have to limit myself to the work his office is responsible for… but he hasn’t been explicit in his reasoning behind such a measure. You’d have to ask him,” replied Hermione innocently. Thank Merlin she was quick on her feet.

“Hm, of course… A man as brilliant as him doesn’t need to share his thought process with a lowly assistant. It makes sense.”

If keeping her cover hadn’t been the most important thing to her at that very moment, Hermione would have slapped Astoria. She took in a deep breath and tried to remain calm.

“Of course,” she said. “I’m deeply sorry I can’t help you. You’ll have to ask Mr Malfoy.”

“Oh, he’ll just say no again… But I do believe that if you really wanted to help out, you could convince him! After all, he’s incredibly happy with your work – it only seems logical that he’d agree to it if you’re the one asking.”

Hermione couldn’t believe it. What a prissy little bitch!

“As a matter of fact,” added Astoria, oblivious to the rage crawling up Hermione’s face, “let’s go ask him now, why don’t we? I’d like to be there, of course, to receive the good news straight from the horse’s mouth!”

“Isn’t Mr Malfoy down with the flu?” asked Hermione, hoping this nightmare could be put to bed soon.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s fine! Let’s go then,” commanded Astoria.

Hermione tried to think of a thousand different excuses – she couldn’t come up with a single one that made sense. Cursing herself, she grabbed her purse and locked the office door on her way out. She was sure that this was no coincidence – Astoria had been frustrated with Draco’s refusal to let her access and use his assistant, so, _somehow_ , she had planned this entire interaction. She knew Sally wouldn’t cave after her first offer – just as she knew Sally couldn’t turn down the second. Hermione hated to admit it, but she was impressed – if it hadn’t been this manipulative, and with such a shallow goal in mind, she would’ve called the move utterly brilliant.

Once they had left the Ministry, Astoria placed her gloved hand on Hermione’s wrist – barely touching it. Hermione could tell she was repulsed to have to be in close contact with someone she considered to be much inferior to her.

“We’ll have to apparate. Please don’t touch me, though. I’ll do it,” declared Astoria condescendingly.

Hermione kept her cool and let Draco’s fiancée take her to his apartment. It was a place she knew all too well, having spent much of her time there in the past. She felt some bile crawl up her oesophagus at the very thought of setting foot there again and swallowed it back. This was not the time.

The apartment was as she remembered it – grand, luxurious, impersonal. Some art pieces had been replaced with newer ones, but other than that, everything was in its place.

“Draco!” called out Astoria. “I’m home! And I brought a surprise with me!”

Surprisingly, they received no answer. This didn’t seem to trouble Astoria, who gestured for Hermione to follow her. They traversed the apartment until they reached the room Hermione had dreaded to see – Draco’s bedroom. She didn’t have time to linger on that thought – Astoria had entered without so much as a knock.

“Ah, honey, there you are,” she said, smiling from cheek to cheek.

Hermione followed suit and remained frozen on the spot – Draco was there, indeed… asleep in his bed. In the nude, as was usual for him.

“Is he… okay?” she asked tentatively.

“Oh, he’s fine. He must have taken too much Dreamless Draught,” said Astoria dismissively.

Hermione swallowed her saliva, suddenly feeling an unease she thought was gone forever. So Draco was still doing it, then? He had promised he would stop… but, then again, she had promised she would never leave. Broken promises littered their past.

Astoria pulled out her wand and performed a non-verbal spell to wake her fiancé up. Hermione watched her intently – she was shocked to see worry crease her otherwise perfectly aristocratic and delicate face. Despite her dismissive demeanour and her careless attitude, Astoria truly cared for Draco — this was news to Hermione, who remembered Draco telling her his engagement was a sham.

“Oh, Draco, honey! I was so worried!” screamed Astoria as she flung her arms around a disoriented Draco. “This morning… you wouldn’t wake up… I hurried to fetch Miss Bloom, of course… I found her running around the office like a headless chicken, panicked out of her mind! She didn’t know where you were!”

Hermione wondered why she dared tell such a bold-faced lie. She kept her composure, and chose to put it out of her mind for now. Astoria’s acting skills were truly on par with those of seasoned Hollywood actresses.

Astoria bent down and whispered to Draco’s ear, loud enough for Hermione to hear: “You know, I think she might have a little crush on you. But really, who could blame her?” _That bitch._

Draco sat up and pushed his fiancée away. His face, usually so cold and composed, was disfigured by a wave of emotions, namely confusion.

“What in the…” he began as he took in his surroundings.

As soon as his eyes set on Hermione, or, rather, Sally, everything went sideways very quickly. He picked up his wand, summoned some clothes, got out of bed and slipped on some pants, forgoing any top attire. Hermione blushed – he was just as shameless as she remembered him.

“Astoria, what the _fuck_? Why is Sally here? What is going on?” He was angry.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll be in the living room,” said Hermione, before exiting the room.

As soon as she had stepped out, she heard a myriad of shouts echoing through the apartment. She tried to avoid listening, but the volume of their respective voices made it difficult.

“Astoria, I _swear_ to Morgana, if you fucking drugged me, I’ll have you _finished_!” yelled Draco.

“What are you so mad at, Draco? It’s not my fault you drank too much of that Dreamless Draught! I was worried about you, and this is how you treat me?”

Hermione wished she could disappear here and there — but the wards prevented her from apparating and she was too shocked to move.

“I don’t fucking care about your feelings, Astoria. You really brought my assistant into this? And in my home, no less? Are you sodding bonkers?” yelled Draco.

Hermione could tell Astoria was hurt. The silence was deafening — thick cotton falling from the skies and coating the walls, forming large clouds of unbreathable air, fogging both mind and spirit. Hermione fucking hated the sound of silence in Draco’s apartment — so heavy it was painful.

“How dare you?” said Astoria after a long minute. Her voice was so low Hermione barely heard it — though, at this point, she wasn’t _really_ trying to avoid listening to them. Draco didn’t respond.

The following second, Astoria stormed out of the room and of the apartment, without giving Hermione so much as a look. The silence following her departure resonated too much for Hermione’s liking, and she grabbed her purse, intending to leave as well. She would deal with the consequences later.

“Sally?” asked Draco before she could step out.

Hermione turned around and blushed. “I’m so sorry, she wanted me to come and ask if I could help plan the wedding, I didn’t know what to do and I… I’m so sorry, please don’t fire me,” she pleaded, hoping she wasn’t overplaying her hand.

Draco gestured dismissively. “It’s fine, I don’t blame you. I would ask you to refrain from gossiping about my private life at work, though. What you were privy to today must remain a well-guarded secret — as I’m sure you’re aware, I’m very much still a public figure,” he said, sighing.

“Of course. I had no intention to say anything… nor do I have any reason to.”

“I’m trusting you with this,” he insisted, staring right into her eyes.

Hermione choked back a sob. Since she had started working at the Ministry, Draco had never, not once, looked her in the eyes. This was the first time she was seeing his face staring at her in nearly three years… and, though she knew he wasn’t looking at her, but rather at _Sally_ , she felt like she could collapse.

“Anyway,” he added, turning away from her, “I will not be going into work today. You are free to take the day off and do as you please.”

Hermione hesitated for a moment. She knew the best course of action was to accept and leave. This was what he wanted — but that brief moment of intimacy they had just shared prevented her from doing so. _Hermione, you sodding idiot, it wasn’t intimacy, and it wasn’t even with you! Just get out of there and go back to your book_ , she thought. Alas, it was too late.

“I could stay and help you out, if you’d like. I know the drowsiness from drinking too much Dreamless Draught can be debilitating,” she exclaimed carelessly.

Draco, who had been making his way back to his room, turned around. His blond eyebrows were raised in complete disbelief.

“What?” he asked.

It was too late to go back.

“Well, it’s just… I had a friend who took a lot of that stuff back in the day. I took care of her the morning after, usually. So… I, well, I know what to do,” she replied.

He stood there for a second, a neutral expression drawn on his pale face.

“On second thought,” she added tentatively, “maybe… erm… I should just go home. I’m sorry to have—”

“I accept,” said Draco, surprising Hermione.

Without skipping a beat, she placed her purse on the marble console standing next to her and began rifling through her bag — she knew she still had some, just in case. She saw the small glass vial glint at the bottom of her bag and grabbed it.

“Pepper up potion?” asked Draco, eyeing the green liquid. “Isn’t that for the flu?”

“It is, but it can help in other cases! It’s actually perfect for hangovers, drowsiness… though you should never take too much of it, lest you want to become so artificially euphoric you’d make some very unwise decisions,” explained Hermione as she handed him the vial.

“Oh, right. Thank you.”

He popped the cork and downed the potion in a single motion. Hermione felt uneasy — she had seen him do this very gesture too many times to count, though it was usually with a very different type of drink.

“You’re right, I feel better already,” he stated as he returned the empty vial. “I even feel good enough to go back to work.”

“Hold up! You have to go sit down, you’re going to feel feverish in a couple of minutes,” said Hermione as she grabbed his wrist and dragged him to the nearest couch.

“What? But you said—”

“I know what I said. It does make you feel better, but because it’s primarily intended to treat the flu, it’s going to take about an hour before you’re going to feel completely restored,” she replied with authority, pushing him to force him to sit down.

He brought his right hand to his forehead. “Oh… you’re right, I… don’t feel so great anymore. You… you’re not trying to poison me so you can get my job, are you?”

He erupted in laughter and Hermione tucked the hair of her wig behind her ears nervously.

“No, of course not! Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

“I trust you,” he said, suddenly sounding very serious. He looked into her eyes for the second time that day.

 _Does he know? No, he can’t… it’s the fever talking, of course it’s the fever talking_ , thought Hermione, attempting to avoid his gaze. She plopped down on the couch next to him, gathering her legs against her chest in a useless attempt to shield herself from his eyes.

“You know, Sally, I had a friend, back when I was at the university. You sometimes remind me of her… she, too, would go from confidence to nervousness at the drop of a hat. I never figured out how she could be so volatile. Everyone praised her for her intelligence, but I don’t think anyone truly realised how fragile she truly was,” he began suddenly. He sounded far away — he wasn’t really talking to her.

Hermione looked away. She knew the fever sometimes made people uncharacteristically talkative, but she had never expected it from Draco. She pursed her lips and decided she needed to seize the opportunity. She would probably come to regret it — but this was too important.

“Tell me more about her,” she encouraged, turning to face him, and confronting his gaze for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I was scared I wouldn’t be able to publish the chapter today because I faced some technical difficulties this week, but thankfully I’ve resolved them right on time. Next chapter will be a flashback, though it will be from Draco’s perspective (as you might have guessed from the ending). I hope you liked this chapter, and please don’t hesitate to let me know what you liked and disliked so I can make sure I’m heading in the right direction!!  
> Next chapter will be uploaded on Saturday 31st. It will include some Halloweeny elements, so the timing is pretty perfect.  
> See you all next time, and have a great week!


	7. Draco’s Mission Impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: drug use

_Monday, October 5 th, 1998_

Draco grabbed his scarf and wrapped himself up in it. This October was particularly chilly, and Draco wasn’t sure whether his pale composition could withstand such weather for long. He pulled out his pen, his notebook and patiently waited for the professor to begin lecturing the class.

He thought pens and notebooks were a fun contraption. Since Granger had shown them to him in class, he hadn’t let go. Pens were much more practical than quills, and notebooks were _definitely_ better than crinkly old parchment. Each day Draco spent in the Muggle world filled him with excitement. He was giddy — just like a small child at Christmas. Electricity! Cars! Public commute! Cinemas! Television! Computers! Best of all, though, was the coffee — there were so many options! Granger laughed every time he ordered a frappuccino, mocking him for enjoying such a girly drink, but he couldn’t have enough of them. He sometimes wondered why the wizarding world hadn’t taken to integrate these incredible inventions, but he never lingered too much on it. He knew people like him, people like his father, were the reason why. He was ashamed to have taken part in this madness, and still couldn’t fathom why Granger agreed to speak with him.

Things hadn’t been smooth sailing at first. She refused to even glance at him on their first day of school. She thoroughly ignored him for the first week — he understood why, but he had wished she would give him a chance to prove he had changed. He was still an arsehole in more ways than one, sure, but he had tried his best to overcome his bigotry, and he wanted to mend fences with those he had hurt the most.

It wasn’t until she saw him struggling to take notes in class (he had been dumb enough to bring a quill and parchment, which the other students had mocked him for) that she agreed to acknowledge his presence. She had sat him down in a coffee shop later that day and laid out for him the details of the modern Muggle world.

“But,” he had protested, “why wasn’t any of this taught in the introductory courses at the LUW?”

“Probably because wizards still like to think Muggles are primitive idiots incapable of evolving or progressing in any way,” she had responded. Though her tone had been dismissive, he could tell there was pain there.

After that first meeting, they began to meet up regularly after class. Draco would come with a series of new questions, which Granger answered to. Despite her casual demeanour and occasional exasperation, he had noticed she seemed happy that he was taking such a strong interest in her world.

Over the course of the next few weeks, they grew awkwardly closer. Unspoken events from their respective pasts loomed over their heads, but they never addressed them — living in blissful denial suited them both. They were standing on shaky ground, and Draco wondered when the time would come for the past to bite them both in the arse.

After his public law class, Draco headed for the nearest deli, where Granger was waiting for him. They had recently started having lunch together a couple of times a week, and Draco tremendously enjoyed it, though he did his best to hide it. The Muggle world would have been far too lonely for him if she hadn’t been there.

“Hey,” he said as he sat down and pulled out his class notes.

Granger discretely grabbed her wand and non-verbally duplicated them.

“Thanks,” she replied, returning his notes to him.

“I still don’t get why you need those. It’s not like you need to have a legal mind to earn your degree in economics.”

“Of course I don’t, Malfoy. This is for my personal benefit, as I’ve told you multiple times already,” she replied in a sigh.

“Why not just do the law degree, then? Or better yet, why not do both?” he asked, grabbing the sandwich she had ordered for him.

“The LUW won’t let me, surely you know that! My degree is already a double degree, they think if I take on another one, it’ll be too much work. Too much work, really! Like there’s such a thing when you’re studying something you’re passionate about.” She sounded exasperated, and her hair felt more electric than usual.

Draco laughed. “Really, Granger, I will never understand you. I _know_ why you’re like that, but I’ll just never understand it.”

She paused and jotted him a curious look. “And why am I like that, pray tell?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious? You’re scared you’ll never be able to know everything about, well, _everything_ , so you’re trying to run out the clock and cram in as much as you can in the shortest amount of time possible,” he stated matter-of-factly.

She raised her eyebrows. “Funny, I’ve been friends with Ron and Harry for over seven years now and they never put it that way. They just used to say that I was crazy.”

“They’re idiots, that’s why,” said Draco mid-chew.

Granger frowned but didn’t respond. He knew she knew it to be true — as much as she loved her friends, they had little in common, save for their goody-two-shoes Gryffindor attitude. Come to think of it, Draco thought Granger would have fared well in Slytherin — her thirst for knowledge was highly competitive, and much less pure than it seemed upon first impression. Yes, she would have made a great Slytherin — though he would never let her know… unless he ever developed a death wish.

They finished their lunch in silence and went on a walk. Though the weather was chilly, the sun was out and the sky was blue, a rare occurrence during the Londonian autumn. They walked over to the Middle Temple Gardens, enjoying the sunlight in silence. Granger pulled out a cigarette and lit it as she sat down in the grass.

“Can I bum a drag?” asked Draco.

He had never enjoyed wizards’ tobacco, and had always found pipes to be inconvenient. Muggle cigarettes, though, were something else.

Granger handed him the cigarette and he inhaled the smoke deeply. For some reason, he began coughing loudly. She laughed and retrieved her cigarette before he could drop it.

“Oh, I see you’re done bum puffing, then,” she commented, still laughing.

“ _Bum what_?” he asked once the cough had died down.

“It’s when you smoke without inhaling. Trust me, if you keep going, you’re going to end up like me — smoking half a pack a day,” she explained.

He stopped dead in his tracks and looked at her.

“I wasn’t inhaling before?” he asked. He definitely thought he was.

“No. My parents told me all about it when they lectured me about cigarettes and how they turn your teeth yellow. Not that I was smoking then…” She paused, seemingly lost in thought. “If they could see me now,” she whispered. She suddenly sounded distant, and her laughter was gone. “Anyway,” she added, “I have a class in thirty minutes, so maybe we should head back?”

Draco didn’t respond immediately. Granger’s parents… he always assumed she was living with them. Were they dead? Where were they?

“Granger…” he began, getting up to follow her.

She turned her head to face him. “Yeah?”

“What did you mean by “if they could see me now”? Don’t you see your parents?” he asked, hoping this discussion wouldn’t blow up in his face.

“Well, no, I can’t see them. I erased their memories of me and gave them new identities. They live in Australia, now… or maybe they moved, but that’s where I convinced them to go live anyway.” Her tone remained neutral all throughout, but Draco noticed tears forming in the corners of her eyes. The guilt he spent his days and his nights pushing down came bursting. This may not have been his fault entirely, but he sure had a hand in it.

“I’m sorry, Granger. I’m so sorry,” he said.

“I know, Malfoy. I know you’re sorry. But it doesn’t matter — regardless of what you did, I would have had to protect them from Voldemort at some point. I was too close to Harry, too involved in the fight for this to turn out differently.”

“Yes, but… I’m still sorry. You may know, but you at least deserve to hear it.”

“Thank you. That’s nice of you,” she replied unconvincingly.

Had their bubble of blissful denial burst? Draco could tell she didn’t really care for his weak apology. Maybe she didn’t want to hear it… maybe she didn’t believe it… maybe she simply didn’t want to acknowledge it.

“Granger—” he began as he noticed her trying to step away.

She turned around suddenly. Her cheeks glowed red with what he could only assume was anger. “Malfoy, please stop. We’re not friends, alright? I agreed to help you because you seemed so lost and willing to change — which I appreciate, don’t get me wrong. But that doesn’t make us friends. I’m really just looking for company, I guess. And I know it’s the case for you too. Let’s not pretend we’re anything more than we are. You may be sorry, but you’re not forgiven. Or… I don’t know, not yet at least. Just… don’t, alright?” she pleaded. Though she seemed angry, her tone was unsure and reflected a plethora of emotions, most of which he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Right. You’re right. Let’s head back to class,” he stated.

He let her lead the way. He knew whatever was going on between them was now broken.

_Saturday, October 31 st, 1998_

Draco fit the fake vampire teeth in his mouth. He was dreadfully good-looking as a vampire, even if he didn’t resemble one in the slightest. He didn’t know where Muggles had gotten their idea of what vampires looked like, but they couldn’t be further from the truth. Nevertheless, the concept of dressing up for Halloween was fun, and both he and Granger had been invited to a house party by one of their classmates, so he obliged. Granger had given him a couple of costume suggestions, and he had landed on vampire, thinking it was a safe choice, to which she had agreed. She had however refused to tell him what she was going as, and planned on surprising him when they would meet up later that evening.

Ever since that fateful lunch break, she had grown colder. Perhaps their discussion had reminded her of who he had been — something he regretted with each passing day. They still met up occasionally after class and had lunch together on most Wednesdays, but, other than that, their contact was very limited.

Draco adjusted his white contacts and decided he was ready. He looked at his wand, placed on his night stand, and wondered whether to take it or not. On ordinary days, it wasn’t an issue — he simply carried it in his book-bag. On occasions such as this one, though, he wondered whether bringing a wand in a room full of Muggles, where booze would flow freely, truly was the best idea. He stood there for a minute, contemplating the implications of his recent choices — five months ago, he wouldn’t have been caught dead without a wand (Potter stealing his had had him screaming bloody murder and pressuring his mother into landing him hers). Yet, here he was, fully immersed in the Muggle world, and questioning if he truly needed it. Frustrated with himself, he decided against taking it. He would take the London Underground, and that was that. He stuffed his wallet into one pocket, his keys in the other, grabbed the bottle of whiskey he had bought earlier in the day and left the apartment.

Though the metro wasn’t something aristocratic wizards and Muggles would ever be caught dead in, Draco tremendously enjoyed it. He disliked being in contact with a crowd in such a tight and cramped space, but he loved the feeling of being transported underground. It was much less nauseating than apparition, that much was for sure.

By the time he arrived at the party, it was already in full swing. He placed the whiskey bottle on the drinks table and made his way through the crowd, spotting a familiar figure on the balcony.

“Hi,” he greeted Granger, who was smoking while staring at the horizon.

“Oh, hey,” she replied absentmindedly.

She was wearing a black dress cinched at the waist, over which was layered a belt with a thick metal buckle. The dress was conservative — it rested tightly around her neck, which was adorned with a white collar. Her hair was divided in two braids and spray painted black. Draco couldn’t help but laugh.

“What are you supposed to be?” he asked. “You look like my grandaunt when she was twelve,” he added, still laughing.

She smiled and turned to him. “I’m Wednesday Addams. It’s a character from a movie. I’ve loved it ever since it came out — during our first year at Hogwarts,” she replied. “But… thanks for the… comment.” She turned away, her smile having faded away.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult, Granger. It’s obvious you’re very pretty despite your outdated outfit,” he pointed out cockily.

“I’m _what_?” she responded, jerking her head towards him.

Draco hadn’t realised what he had said. Shockingly, he knew he meant it. Before he could respond, though, she sighed and said: “I knew it was too good to be true. You’re still such an arse. Mocking my physique, really? You’d stoop this low after what I’ve done for you?”

She crushed her cigarette butt and returned to the party. Draco stood there, unable to formulate a coherent thought. What had just happened? He truly hadn’t meant to insult her. Since when had he become this inept? It wasn’t like him.

Shaking his head in disbelief, he went inside, intending to correct her. He found her downing a shot of vodka with a couple of students he recognized from their political economy class. He approached them and raised his voice to ensure she would hear him over the loud music blasting from the speakers.

“Granger, can I please talk to you? In private?”

The other students ooh-ed, which he found to be very immature.

“What?” she responded aggressively, turning to face him.

“I meant it, what I said. It wasn’t an insult,” he said, staring into her eyes.

“Whatever, Malfoy.” She turned to her friends and shouted “another!” while handing them her shot glass.

Draco stood there, flabbergasted. What was with her? He didn’t know Granger to be much of a drinker — especially not a _hard liquor_ drinker.

“You gonna join us, blondie?” inquired one of Granger’s friend, a petite brunette dressed as the devil, as she handed him a shot glass.

Draco complied and downed the drink. And another. And another. Soon enough, the night became a blur. He remembered being given a small white pill called “molly”, which Granger had eagerly taken minutes earlier. _I guess it can’t be that bad if even Granger is willing to indulge,_ he thought as he swallowed it. An hour later, he was dancing with her while “Monster Mash” was blasted on the speakers. The music resonated through his blurred mind, leaking out of his ears and dripping on his shoes, forming a pool of liquid he thought he nearly slipped on. His hand grabbed Granger’s waist to hold himself into place and she crashed into him, curvaceous lines complimenting his harsh angles. She looked up to him — swirling moors of a deep chestnut brown staring at him, a deep sea of soil in which everything was reflected. The colours of the costumes surrounding them blended together — they were levitating in a rainbow. Everything was in part something else, as if his mind had entered a thick forest laden with sharp trees, obscuring his view and understanding of the world. He reached for one of Granger’s braids and meshed his fingers in it, amazed by the softness of the silk it seemed to be made of. He stared at it intently, coating his fingertips in the black soot that was the spray paint — his body leaned further into hers, time flying by in floating numbers, heat imprisoning his sense of self, the wrinkling of her clothes keeping him latched onto the last shred of reality.

“Granger,” he whispered into her ear.

“Yes?”

“I really think you’re pretty. Not just tonight.” He breathed into her neck, sending hundreds of tiny hairs flying in ripples and waves.

“You’re an idiot, Malfoy,” she replied, the soft sound of her laughter echoing on his goose-bumped skin.

“Well, of course, Ms Brightest Witch of Her Age.”

She erupted in laughter. The loud guttural sound sent him flying into the void and he crashed into the floor, feeling his bones tickling his nerves. Granger reached for his hand and pulled him up in a swift motion.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.

He didn’t respond. Suddenly, the room was too hot, too cramped, too colourful.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing her by the hand and dragging her out on the balcony. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

Perhaps it was the drugs, but the stars above glowed large like street-lamps. Each one was more of a sallow yellow orb than a brilliant pin-prick of white. The city skyline lay forgotten, too minuscule and too manmade to be allowed to compete with the stars — it was as if Vincent Van Gogh himself had returned to paint it. Draco let the dark cloak of the sky coat his face with little dots of light, breathing in the fresh air. Next to him, Granger had lit a cigarette — a thick trail of smoke blended into the sky, rushing to disappear, faster than Cinderella after the clock rang at midnight. Draco leaned forward, elbows parallel to the metallic rail.

“Muggle Halloween is fun.” His voice was weak and he nearly stumbled on his words.

Granger nodded in agreement, seemingly still too wrapped up in her thoughts to pay him any real attention.

“I think we could be friends, you know…” he began, unsure of where he was going. His mind was still clouded by the molly.

“Maybe,” she replied noncommittally.

“What could I do to make it up to you?” he asked.

Granger remained silent for a minute. Whether she was deliberately letting him simmer or too high to have heard him, he could only guess. He patiently waited, lighting his own cigarette in the interim. Maybe there was nothing he could do, after all.

Then, suddenly, she turned to face him — and told him, in a manner so uncharacteristically Granger he nearly choked on his cigarette smoke: “Kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, who is this Hermione Granger?? Please trust me, we’ll understand what’s happening in her mind in the next chapters (2005 for chapter 7 and 1998 for chapter 8). It seems like it might be going too fast, but we’re only a quarter of the way through, so there’s a lot of problems coming their way, which I’m excited for TBH.  
> I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Whether you did or not, please feel free to leave a comment, I greatly appreciate them and they’re a good way for me to calibrate the story.  
> Happy Halloween to you all! My country went back into lockdown for a month, so I might be able to update a bit more often, but no promises.


	8. Spit-Up Champagne and Awkward Meetings

_Friday, October 28 th, 2005_

Hermione gathered her things, ready to leave the office. She waved a timid goodbye to Draco, who nodded in response, and grabbed the last documents she had to file before the weekend.

After having listened to Draco recount their meeting and burgeoning friendship in his feverish state, she had chosen to discretely obliviate him. She had a hard time coming to terms with her decision to erase that afternoon from his memory, but she couldn’t risk the implications of him knowing he had told one of his best-guarded secrets to what he assumed to be his secretary, Sally Bloom. Hermione herself didn’t know how to process what she had heard — granted, she already knew what had happened, factually speaking, given her starring role in the events, but having his version of said events was too much for her to handle at the moment.

“Ms Bloom?” asked Draco before she could leave the office.

“Yes?”

“I hope this isn’t inappropriate to ask of you, though I would understand if it were. (He paused, twirling his pen in his hand before looking up to her.) Would you be willing to come to the engagement party Astoria is throwing tomorrow night? I would enjoy having you there, and I believe you could make some useful connections to advance your career.”

Hermione opened her eyes wide. This was uncharacteristic for Draco — which meant he had something else in mind. What it was, though, she could only guess for now.

“Erm… sure, that sounds like it could be fun,” she replied.

“Great. You’ll receive an invitation by owl with the necessary details. I look forward to seeing you there,” he replied.

She nodded and finally left. A feeling she had long forgotten started to stir in her stomach: guilt. She was feeling guilty for lying to him. Despite all his flaws and their complex history, Draco had been kind to her, and she was willingly deceiving him to serve her interests. He was willing to help Sally advance her career, and, that alone, even if he had ulterior motives in mind, was a testament to how much he had changed and grown over the years. He didn’t consider her to be some simple secretary, existing only to do his bidding. He saw true value in her, he considered her as an entire person with goals, a future and contributions to make. He didn’t deserve to be used in order to create a bestselling book — as pure as Hermione’s intentions were with this project, they would always be tainted by her actions. She wanted to hurt the Ministry, to force them to change their ways, which was certainly a noble goal. But who would she really hurt in the end? Real people who had given her the benefit of the doubt, who had trusted her and taken her identity at face value. Hermione started shaking. She dropped her unlit cigarette and tears began to stream down her face. She wiped them forcefully with her hand and decided to apparate home before she would start sobbing uncontrollably in public.

She barely managed to make it to her bed before collapsing. The trembling traveled through her bones and muscles, reaching every nerve in its path. She let it overtake her for a moment before forcing it to calm down in order to get to her medicine cabinet. She stood there, hands still shaking softly — should she be doing this? She had promised herself she would stop, and had done so successfully for nearly three years. If she gave in now, her hard work would go down the drain in seconds.

All rationality went out the window the moment she seized the bottle. It didn’t matter anymore — whatever she had accomplished in the past was useless if she couldn’t behave ethically in the present. She popped the bottle open and downed it in an all-too-familiar gesture. Quasi-instantly, the Dreamless Draught started coursing through her veins, lulling her into a peaceful sleep. Her body became limp and she dropped on the floor, head hitting the tiled floor on her way down.

When she woke up, some fifteen hours later, her head was throbbing. She rubbed her forehead frantically, cursing herself for being weak and slowly got back up. She reached for the Pepper Up potion and drank it before going to lie down in her bed, waiting for the fever to hit her. It dawned on her that, despite everything she had been through, she was still weak. Weaker, even. What sort of Hell had she gotten herself into? She didn’t have time to dwell on it: the fever reached her brain and left her dizzy and confused.

She found the courage to get up an hour later, once the fever had faded entirely. She brewed some fresh coffee and sat down at her counter, thoughtful. Only then did she notice the envelope that had seemingly been dropped there sometime between her coming home and drugging herself to oblivion. She removed the seal and delicately unfolded the letter. It was an invitation to the engagement party Draco had mentioned… She had forgotten she had agreed to go. She read the invitation. The soirée was set to start at eight o’clock… though, thankfully, not at Malfoy Manor. They had managed to secure the ballroom of a prestigious wizarding hotel, just North of London. Sighing, Hermione RSVP’ed and got dressed to post her response from the Owl Office.

As she walked through Diagon Alley, she tried to come to a definite decision. She couldn’t go on like this… she had to ask Ernie to agree to terminate her contract. If she let this game play out any longer, the guilt would eat her alive. It had only been a day since it had reared up its ugly head, and she was already indulging in destructive behaviour. She had to put a stop to this. Today.

After RSVP’ing to Draco and Astoria’s engagement party, she returned home and contacted Ernie through the Floo.

“Hermione, what could possibly grant me the honour of seeing your lovely face on a Saturday morning?” he asked, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

“Hi, Ernie. This is… erm… a bit difficult to ask but…”

“You’ve been discovered already, haven’t you? I knew you couldn’t do it,” he sighed, interrupting her. “Let me get legal in on this call.”

“No!” she yelled. “Ernie, listen, I’m fine, alright? I mean… no one knows or suspects anything. It’s just… this mission is hard for me. I… I’d rather end it now and write something else, you know…” she said in a trembling voice.

“Finally settled on the autobiography, then?” His voice was hungry, almost ravenous.

“No. I’ve told you already Ernie, I’m never writing that autobiography, not in a million years!” protested Hermione.

“Alright then… since you won’t compromise, neither will I. You’ve already signed the contract for this book, the tell-all exposé on the Ministry. If you don’t deliver as promised, it’ll be a breach of contract, and, trust me, you don’t want me to sue you, especially not for this. You’ve made some money with us, Hermione, but not nearly enough to cover the fees my lawyers will throw at you,” he responded. He sounded so cold that Hermione shivered.

“I—”

He interrupted her. “You begged me to let you do this Hermione. I relented, and now, my arse is on the line, because what you’re doing is dangerous. I warned you and you didn’t listen! Chalk it up to that infamous Gryffindor impulsiveness… You’ve made your bed, and you must now lie in it. I do not care what your reasons are, Hermione. You will deliver, as promised, _on time_ , or I will have your arse handed to you by a court full of my father’s friends,” he said menacingly. He paused. “If I were you, I would tread lightly before responding.”

“I… Fine. Fine. I’ll get you the first chapters in three weeks, as promised,” she said, resigned.

“Good. Have a nice week-end, _Ms Bloom._ ”

And, with that, he ended the call. Hermione was still shaking — he was much more ruthless than she could have ever imagined. She wondered why he ever landed in Hufflepuff in the first place — he seemed much more well-suited for Slytherin.

Regardless, she was now stuck. She had to find a way to make her guilt manageable enough for her to get through this alive or this was the end of her, either literally or figuratively. She took a deep breath — there was only one solution left. One she had refused to consider… She had to tell Draco. During the party.

It was still early. Hermione had an entire day left to dread the upcoming evening, which was… fun. She wandered through Diagon Alley, hoping to find a suitable dress. Most of her evening wear had already been seen by Draco, and was very much un-Sally-like. None of it was purple, much less pink… Two colours she hadn’t gone a day without since working for Draco.

She finally reached Tailored 4 U, a pop new chain of retail clothing stores. Unlike Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, which was much too old-fashioned and pricey for Hermione’s taste, Tailored 4 U offered a pretty modern collection, and the clothes, like the name implied, could fit any body without any effort or additional tailoring required.

She ventured in and immediately spotted Astoria chatting with another woman at the back of the store. Cursing her inability to walk in Diagon Alley without running into someone she couldn’t bear to see, Hermione hid behind a rack of colourful tops. She wondered what Astoria was doing here in the first place — this store didn’t seem high-end enough for her to even acknowledge, much less walk into in broad daylight.

Hermione’s efforts turned out to be useless, in the end. As Astoria left, she spotted her.

“Well, then, if it isn’t Miss Granger,” she said condescendingly.

Hermione sighed. She really couldn’t catch a break.

“Hi Astoria. You can go about your day, I really don’t have anything to say to you,” she replied, turning away.

“Oh no you won’t! Face me, you coward. Where’s all that Gryffindor bravery gone, all of a sudden?”

Hermione turned back to face Astoria. She seized her up in one look and laughed. “I’m not scared of you, Astoria. You’re literally 5 feet tall. I’m just trying to spare your feelings,” she responded. She could tell all eyes were on them now. This confrontation couldn’t be avoided anymore.

“ _My feelings_? I’d think your honour is what’s on the table today. Especially after what you’ve done…”

“Are you really about to make a scene? Do you want what happened to make the headlines in tomorrow’s _Prophet_? I hear the Sunday column loves to eat that shit up. I’m sure _Draco_ would love to know that you spilled the beans publicly weeks before the grand wedding.” She hated herself for being this awful — Astoria had been nothing but a victim when everything unfolded. To turn the tables on her this violently was not only unwarranted, but also entirely unethical. It was, however, the only way Hermione could think of to remain unharmed. She, after all, had been a victim as well — though a very guilty one.

“Oh, _you sodding_ _Mudblood,_ this is going to be the end of you…” warned Astoria, raising her wand.

There and then, Hermione knew she had won.

“Really, Astoria? Are you going to hex and insult me in a clothing store before lunch? How unladylike,” she responded calmly.

Astoria seemed to regain her senses. She lowered her wand and exited the store in a rage, her stilettos stomping the floor loudly on her way out. Hermione waited for a minute before exiting herself — she had a feeling she wasn’t welcome in this establishment anymore. She could find a dress in a Muggle store — why she hadn’t thought of that in the first place evaded her entirely. The potion truly had done a number on her cognitive abilities, much like it had back in the day.

She found a dress quickly enough in a nearby thrift store and returned home to eat some lunch and nap before the dreaded event. Her plans were interrupted as soon as she stepped in the kitchen — on her counter was yet another letter. She immediately recognised the seal Draco used for personal correspondence and audibly swallowed her saliva. This could only mean one thing: it was addressed to _her,_ Hermione, and not to Sally, with whom Draco used his professional seal exclusively.

She opened the letter quickly, hoping it would have the same effect as ripping off a band-aid.

_“Hermione,_

_I’ve heard Astoria and you got into it, in a clothing store of all places. What will it take for you to leave us alone?_

_Draco”_

The nerve of that man! Surely Astoria had told him some tall tale of being stalked and taunted by Hermione, when it was really quite the opposite. She would be happy to leave them alone! They were the ones who kept showing up in unlikely places!

She grabbed a pen and scribbled a response back, pouring her anger in the few lines she addressed him.

_“Happy to, Malfoy. Tell your fiancée that, the next time she sees me, she should ignore me instead of getting in my face, calling me a Mudblood and threatening to murder me. You should know I’m not one to let others attack me without defending myself, or have you already forgotten?”_

She was so riled up she didn’t bother signing. She called her owl, Mignonette, and attached the letter to her paw.

“Send this to that asshat, Malfoy. I think you know where that is,” she said, handing her a treat to thank her.

Mignonette hooted and flew out the window. Within less than an hour, she was back… with another letter. Hermione frowned and ripped the envelope open.

_“I never forget.”_

Was that really all? Oh, that man! She could have killed him. She gave Mignonette another treat and retreated to her room. The day was going far worse than she had thought… how could she tell him the truth after this? He would take it as a form of revenge, which it wasn’t. He would expose her. He would _ruin_ her… again.

Sighing, Hermione lay down on her bed and let her mind drift. She thought back to all the time they spent together, to the days filled with laughter and snow, to the nights spent exhausting themselves and reviving their hearts… She remembered that he had been kind, once. Maybe he could be kind again. Maybe, if she explained herself properly, he would understand.

It was decided, then. She would tell him. The anger, the pent-up frustration, the endless sadness… they couldn’t get the better of her. Not again, not today.

Sitting down at her desk, Hermione grabbed a sheet of paper and got to work. This confession had to be prepared to the best of her ability. She wrote, again, and again, perfecting every sentence until she had laid her heart bare. By the time she was done, it was already seven o’clock. She needed to get ready. She ran to shower, apply her make-up and wig, slip on her dress and shoes. She grabbed her confession and invitation, stuffed them in her purse and rushed to leave — she was already a minute late, which was unacceptable by Pureblood standards.

Hermione followed closely the instructions listed on the invitation and apparated in front of a tall white building, lined with artistic columns. She walked up the stairs and handed her invitation to the butler, who let her in. The reception and surrounding areas had been turned into a ballroom so large it reminded Hermione of Hogwarts’ Great Hall. It seemed the only guests there were those invited to the party — which meant the entire hotel, rooms included, had been booked for the night. She couldn’t even fathom how much money had been spent on the venue alone — she didn’t even want to know what the wedding would be like. More excessively luxurious than this, certainly.

The ceiling must have been twenty feet high. Designs of fruit and flowers were carved into the moulding and small, fat children with wings would look down upon them from every angle. Half the space was occupied by a glittering dance floor, next to which an incredibly boring-looking quartet played some classical music. The rest of the room was lined with small round tables draped in white linen, on which were placed gold plates and silver cutlery. Most tables were already filled with impatient guests talking amongst themselves, usually while holding a champagne flute. Hermione moved forward, unsure of where she was supposed to go.

“Your coat, Ms?” asked a valet, appearing out of nowhere.

“Erm… sure,” responded Hermione tentatively, handing him the coat but keeping her purse. He eyed her curiously but didn’t say anything.

“Erm… Sir… (He frowned, surprised to be called this way.) Do you know… where I’m supposed to sit?”

“What’s your name, Ms?”

“Bloom. Sally Bloom,” she whispered quietly.

“Why, Ms Bloom, of course! You’re at Mr Malfoy’s table, table 1. It’s over there, opposite from the quartet,” he said, pointing to a table in the far right corner.

She thanked him silently and tried to make her way discretely — an impossible feat, given that she was a stranger to all those guests, who met at every gala and charity ball thrown their way. All eyes were on her as she made her way to Draco’s table.

“Ms Bloom,” he said, smiling upon seeing her. “Happy to see you’ve made it! You’ve been placed next to me.” He pulled out her chair for her.

Hermione sat down. Her cheeks were burning hot… she could tell from the corner of her eye that Astoria was unhappy to see her there, especially so close to her fiancé.

Draco snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared, seemingly out of thin air.

“Some champagne for my guest, please,” he said without asking what she would like. She bit her tongue and remained silent — Hermione would have protested, but Sally was the quiet and timid type.

Once she was served, she grabbed her glass and took a small sip.

“So, Ms Bloom,” said the man to her right, “I hear you’re doing great work for Mr Malfoy.”

Hermione turned to face him. She immediately recognised him — Wallace Despond, a prominent member of the Wizengamot. He was especially known for putting forward repressive policies — nonetheless, Hermione smiled and nodded.

“Well, it’s not for me to decide, of course! Mr Despond, I believe? It’s an honour to meet you.”

“It’s an honour to meet _you_ , Ms Bloom! Never before have I heard Mr Malfoy being this satisfied with someone else’s work. Not even mine!” He laughed and attempted to slap the back of Hermione’s chair, narrowly missing and slapping her instead, prompting her champagne to go down her trachea. She began coughing loudly and gasping for air, her cheeks turning redder by the second.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed Mr Despond, visibly horrified.

“I better take her outside so she can inhale some fresh air,” said Draco. He appeared calm, but Hermione could tell he was angry. He grabbed her by the hand and accompanied her to the garden, where she coughed up the last bit of champagne.

“Are you alright?” asked Draco.

“I’m…” she gasped, “fine.”

“You’re not. Here,” he said, gently slapping her upper back. “Let it all out.”

She coughed some more and finally began to breathe again, inhaling deeply.

“Thank you,” she responded, turning to face him.

“Let’s stay here for a bit… We’ll return once you’re recovered. I’m sorry about Wallace, he can be a bit much… I sat him next to you because I think he could do great things for your career. Even more so now that he’s injured you, he must be horrified.” He laughed quietly.

Hermione knew this was it. This was the moment. Her purse was on her chair, but she knew she wouldn’t find another time — the night promised to be busy. She placed a hand on his forearm. He gave her a curious look and turned to face her.

“Draco…” she began. “I need to tell you the truth…”

His eyes widened. In that moment, she knew he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn’t think I’d manage to upload this week because my brain is all kind of mush at the moment and I experienced some serious writer’s block, but I made it!! I hope you all enjoyed it. The stakes, as you can see, are now higher than ever.  
> See you all next week, as per usual, for a flashback to 1998.


	9. Draco and Hermione’s Little Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’m early because I’m not sure I can upload next week (my course schedule is crazy rn and I have lots of exams), so I’m trying to get you 2 chapters this week (one today and one on Sunday). Hope you like it!!

_Saturday, November 1 st, 1998_

As Draco turned from confused to determined, leaning in for the kiss, Hermione erupted in laughter.

“I was joking, dumbass. You should have seen your face!”

Her laughter must have been contagious, because it only took another second for Malfoy to join her.

“I…” he said, trying to regain his breath, “I really thought… Oh, for Merlin’s sake, I can’t believe Hermione Granger has such a wicked sense of humour!”

“Good enough for a Slytherin?” she smirked.

“Definitely good enough for a Slytherin! Better than good enough! You really had me there,” he responded cheerfully.

Her smile faded as the laughter died.

“What I don’t understand, though… is why you leaned in,” she said seriously.

“Well… I mean… You said that you wanted a kiss for me to make it up to you,” he replied, suddenly seeming embarrassed. She could only guess, but it seemed this was essentially what rock-bottom was for any Malfoy worth his salt.

“You’re serious about making it up to me, then?” she asked.

“I am,” he stated, looking deep into her eyes.

“Alright, then. We can try to be friends, Draco Malfoy.”

She extended her hand tentatively and Malfoy shook it vigorously.

“You won’t regret it, Granger.”

“I sure hope I won’t.”

They returned inside the apartment. The drugs had worn off and the cold had suddenly become very real. Shivering, Hermione sat down in one of the couches, next to a couple making out. Malfoy was lost somewhere in the crowd, and she was honestly too tired to care.

To her surprise, he soon came back, two glasses of water in hand.

“Thought we might need these,” he explained as he handed her one.

“Thanks,” she said, grabbing it.

Thus began Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy’s unlikely friendship.

_Tuesday, June 1 st, 1999_

“Draco, I’m not in the mood,” whined Hermione, pushing him away. “I have my last final tomorrow, I need to be ready!”

“You _are_ ready, Granger! You’ve already studied for it months ago. It’s not good to study up until the very last minute, you know. You should be relaxing and getting a good night’s sleep to maximise your performance tomorrow,” he protested, taking her notebook away from her.

“Hey! I need that!”

“No, you don’t, and you’re not getting it back. Come on, Hermione, I’m not asking you to come get wasted with me, I just want to watch the latest episode of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_. It came out weeks ago and I still can’t watch it because you made me promise we’d always watch that show together,” he whined, hiding her notebook in the fridge of his absurdly large kitchen.

“Fine. Fine! But you’re making the popcorn this time,” she said, leaving the kitchen island where they had been studying to regain the living room.

“Thank Merlin, you murdered it the last time,” he muttered under his breath — though, not so low that she couldn’t hear him.

“Hey!” she protested.

“What? I didn’t say anything,” he lied, shrugging.

Ever since they had become friends, it had been like this — a lot of give-and-take: giving each other Hell and taking low-stakes backstabbing without complaining. They both enjoyed it, though it shocked everyone around them. Harry and Ron were completely outraged by her friendship with The Ferret, and Pansy had tried to kidnap Draco more than once, believing him to be under the influence of some spell. Nothing had managed to deter them, though.

Draco soon returned, a large bowl of popcorn in one hand and a jug of cola in the other.

“You could just have brought the bottle,” said Hermione.

“I’m a pretentious arse, you should know that by now,” he smirked.

She laughed and turned on the television. She had managed to install it and enhance it magically so it would record the shows she enjoyed watching. Draco hadn’t seen the appeal in it at first, but ever since she had introduced him to _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ and televised football matches, he was hooked. She flipped through the channels with her wand until she reached the episode recording. She poured cola in both their glasses and sat comfortably.

While Hermione generally paid attention to the episodes, she was more fascinated with Draco’s viewing experience and would regularly glance at him. His fascination with Muggle technology hadn’t dimmed in the slightest, and seeing him being impressed with visual effects and convoluted storylines was a very rewarding experience.

Sometimes, like today, she would be too focused on him to notice the ending of the episode and he would catch her in the act.

“Granger, I know I’m a handsome son of a bitch, but Willow just found out the Ascension can’t be beaten! Pay attention!”

His outrage caused her to laugh.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, offering no explanation. “I’m going to go back to studying.”

He shot her a quizzical look.

“Come on Granger! You need to relax. Take a break.”

“I just did,” she pointed out.

“Forty minutes isn’t a real break. Let’s go out to dinner! I’ll pay,” he offered, insistent.

She knew that look all too well. He would never drop it… so she relented.

“Fine. But not at one of those fancy places! I’m not dressed for it.”

He got up from the couch and sighed. “Deli sandwiches are fine for lunch between two classes, but they’re not acceptable for dinner.” He headed for the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Just go change and I’ll meet you in front of your building in an hour,” he added, returning her notebook to her.

“Alright, but you owe me,” she replied cheekily.

“Hey! I’m already paying!”

“And that’s why I’ll be eating the most expensive thing on the menu,” she laughed as she grabbed her jacket. She headed for the door before he could protest. “See you later!”

Hermione apparated back home. She took a brief shower and rifled through her clothes. This was strange… Draco had taken her to expensive restaurants before in jeans and a t-shirt. It was uncharacteristic of him to tell her to get changed… which meant this wasn’t an ordinary dinner. His insistence that she should take a break was also irregular at best. Not that he didn’t try to get her to stop studying before, but he usually let it go if she compromised and took a half-hour break. Something was definitely off.

Suddenly feeling nervous, Hermione picked the dress she wore at Fleur and Bill’s wedding. It was fancy enough without being over-the-top, though she had lost a lot of weight since first wearing it and it didn’t fit quite as well anymore. She dismissed that last concern and grabbed her purse. True to his word, Draco was waiting for her in the lobby.

“Nice dress.”

“Nice suit.”

They smiled and he took her hand, apparating her to Diagon Alley’s latest fancy address, the Merlingot.

“The press is going to have a field day with this one,” she muttered.

Hermione had largely managed to avoid public attention by ensuring she conducted most of her activities in the Muggle world, where the wizarding press would never think to look for her. She had become so secretive in fact that she had been dubbed “Hermione the Disappearing Act” by the _Prophet_ — a title she was more than happy to receive.

“Don’t worry, I booked the whole place, we’ll be completely alone. I know you hate being in the public eye,” Draco winked, pushing the restaurant door.

“You did what?” whispered Hermione nervously.

“I booked the entire restaurant for us! Don’t worry, it’s not like it could impact my finances,” he smirked, shoving her in gently.

She couldn’t think to protest. This was just too strange. They usually dined in fine Muggle restaurants in jeans, why did today have to be any different? Lost in thought, Hermione mechanically followed Draco to the only table in the restaurant — located right in the middle of the spacious room. The band was playing a soft melodic jazz, while a lone server waited for them to be seated.

“Mr Malfoy, Ms Granger, welcome to Merlingot,” he said sternly, pulling Hermione’s chair for her. She was exasperated by all the pomp and circumstance but she bit her tongue. The poor man was just doing his job.

Once they were sat, Draco ordered a bottle of wine and the server left them.

“Alright, _Malfoy_ , don’t think you’re pulling a fast one on me. What is this all about?” asked Hermione.

“I told you already. You need a break.”

“Please stop acting like any of this is normal for us. If it was just about that, we could have done about a million other things! There’s something else going on. Out with it!” Her voice was raised more than she would have liked it to — her nerves were getting the better of her.

“Fine,” sighed Draco. He started fidgeting with his cutlery, looking away from her. “I wanted to wait until you were done with finals, but it will be announced in tomorrow’s _Prophet_ , and I know you read it every morning, front to back… I’d rather you learn it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“What’s so bad that you need all this to tell me?” she asked, gesturing towards the chandelier above them.

“I’m… engaged,” he replied softly, pressing his fingers on the tips of his fork.

Hermione was speechless. Was this a joke? She tried to make sense of it. “I wasn’t aware you were dating anyone.”

“I’m not. It’s been planned since her birth… and my mother recently had me buy the ring and do the whole song and dance,” he muttered.

“Song and dance? You mean… propose?” Hermione was in disbelief.

“Yes, propose.”

“To whom? Not Pansy?” she nearly shrieked.

He laughed softly. “No, not Pansy… Astoria Greengrass. You know her, she’s a couple of years younger than us. I think you might have met. She’s graduating from Hogwarts so… it’s time.”

“Oh.”

They remained silent for a moment. Hermione felt dizzy — she wasn’t in love with Draco, and he certainly wasn’t in love with her. Yet, somehow, this felt like terrible news, though she couldn’t figure out why.

“Well, congratulations are in order, I’m assuming?” she asked, looking up to him.

He quirked his eyebrows and dropped his fork. “Are you really congratulating me on an arranged marriage, Granger?”

“What else do you expect me to say? If you wanted to get out of it, you already would have. Right?”

“I—”

The server chose that moment to come back with their wine.

“From the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, the Romanée-Conti Grand Cru Pinot Noir, Cote de Nuits,” he said, showing them the bottle.

As was tradition, he had Draco taste it before he could approve it.

“Yes, that’ll do just fine,” he replied.

“And have you chosen your meals?”

“I’ll have the confit de canard. What about you, Hermione?”

“The salmon, please.”

“You can’t pair pinot noir with fish, Granger!” protested Draco.

“I’ll do as I please, Malfoy,” she vociferated. “I’ll have the salmon, thank you,” she added, turning to the server. He nodded and exited the dining room.

“Are you trying to punish me?” asked Draco.

“Why would I punish you? I like pinot noir, I like salmon, there’s nothing more to it. I wasn’t raised like you, Draco, get over it,” she dismissed, sipping her wine.

“I don’t want to marry Astoria.”

“Well, then, by all means, don’t. You’re an adult, Draco. I do not understand why you’re making such a big fuss about it. You’re acting like any of this is my concern. It’s not!”

“Of course it is. We’re friends,” he protested.

“Yes, we are. And yet, I’m learning about this just now, when you’ve known since you were two. It’s obvious you’re not that interested in sharing that part of your life with me. Which is fine, don’t get me wrong… But let’s not pretend like any of this was necessary, then. I really don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

He remained silent for a minute, staring at her intensely. She averted his gaze and focused on her wine glass instead. What in Morgana’s name was going on?

“Tell me you don’t want me to marry her,” he finally stated.

She looked up, shocked.

“Why? If you don’t want to get married to Astoria Greengrass, Draco, that’s your choice. I’m not here to make your decisions for you!” She tried to sound confident, but her voice was broken by the confusion. She could not, for the life of her, understand what was happening — so much for being the brightest witch of her age.

“You know the pressure my family is putting on me to go through with this… of course it’s not entirely my choice,” he insisted.

“If your family’s opinion matters this much, I don’t see why mine would make any difference. For Merlin’s sake, Draco, be courageous in your life, _for once_ , and just tell me what’s really going on! Because it’s obvious I’m only getting half the story here!” She was getting increasingly frustrated. That man would be the end of her, someday.

Their server chose precisely this moment to come back with their food. Hermione sighed — how did this man always know to show up precisely when he shouldn’t?

He placed their respective plates on the table. As he was about to present the dishes — as one does in such places — Draco lifted his hand.

“Thank you. That will be all,” he said firmly.

The server must have sensed the tension crackling in the air because he exited in a brisk pace. Hermione didn’t wait for Draco to answer her. She cut into her salmon and savoured the first bite, before taking another sip of her pinot noir.

“Yes, I was right. They’re wonderful paired together,” she taunted him.

He frowned.

“Granger…”

“Oh, is it Granger, now? How nice, _Malfoy_.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. She hated this dinner.

“Come on, now, don’t be like that! Let’s just talk it out, please.” His duck remained untouched.

“There’s nothing to discuss, Draco. Not until you’ve told me everything… Because I don’t see the point in talking if I don’t have all the information at my disposal. Either you tell me or you let me enjoy my meal in silence,” she warned, planting her knife a little too forcefully in her fish and inadvertently splashing him in butter sauce.

Draco wiped his tie silently, muttering under his breath.

“What was that? I don’t think I heard you.”

He muttered again, as intelligible as ever. Exasperated, Hermione got up, threw her napkin on the table and picked up her purse.

“Fine, have it your way. I’m done playing mind games. Enjoy your dinner, asshole.” With these words, she turned away and promptly left the restaurant, leaving him no time to protest. Once out, she apparated back home as fast as she possibly could, hoping to evade once more the wizarding press.

She unlocked her front door and threw herself on her couch. She couldn’t bring herself to cry… none of this made any sense. Why should she care that he was engaged? Why did he need her blessing to break off the engagement? Why couldn’t he just have told her in his apartment? What had this night been all about? His refusal to answer worried her. Was he trying to end their friendship? Did he believe his arranged marriage would take precedence over what they had? Maybe Astoria hated her. Maybe Astoria didn’t know she existed, and he wished to keep it quiet. Or maybe… just maybe… no, of course not, it was ludicrous to even think about. She was being stupid.

Frustrated, Hermione grabbed the nearest pillow, pressed it against her mouth and yelled. She released weeks, months, years of pent-up, bottled-up anger. The world was moving too fast, too brutally for her. She hadn’t had any time to recover, she was never given a chance to properly heal, and now a sodding man was toying with her emotions, her fragility.

It took all her screaming power, and a good five minutes of her time, but she finally exhausted herself and dropped the pillow — only to realise someone had been banging on her door for some time. She got up and slowly walked to the entrance, peeping through the peek-hole. Unsurprisingly, she saw Draco standing there, cheeks red and eyes darker than she had ever seen them. She reluctantly opened the door.

“What do you want?” she asked angrily.

“Let me in and I’ll just tell you everything. Please,” he begged.

She allowed him in and headed to the kitchen. Coffee just wouldn’t do — she pulled out her only bottle of Firewhiskey and poured them a glass each. He followed her and grabbed his unceremoniously, chugging it.

“Hermione, look. I handled all of this terribly, and I’m sorry for that. You’re right, a fancy dinner wasn’t the way to go. I should have known… But I was an idiot, blinded by feelings I’m not sure I understand. You see…” He sighed and looked up to her. “When my mother came to me and reminded me of this engagement, I followed through without even thinking about it. After all, it’s what’s expected of me — sole Malfoy heir. I proposed, Astoria accepted, and all seemed well. But, then… I thought of you. I realised I just wasn’t the same man I was before, and I didn’t want to encumber myself with the duties of a Malfoy heir. My father was in the same place as I was, and he squandered it all for some lunatic. He’s now rotting in prison, so, really, who cares what the Malfoy heir does? I’m rich, but no one cares what I do or who I become. I hold no true power, not anymore. This engagement is a sham…” He paused and poured himself another glass. “I realised I was really doing it for my mother, to allow her to keep up appearances. I’m all she has now… she loves Father, but she has suffered far too much for far too long. Planning a wedding, seeing me marrying an heiress… it makes her happy.” He averted turned away from Hermione, averting her gaze, and drank some more. “What I hadn’t thought of, though, is that there isn’t just one woman I wish to please anymore. Your opinion matters just as much to me, Hermione. If anything, it matters more, because you’re such a pure spirit that you’d only think of what’s best for me.”

“Don’t put me on a pedestal, Draco…” she said softly.

He turned to face her and placed a hand on her temple, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I don’t think you understand, Hermione. I’m not calling you flawless… I’m calling you selfless.”

His hand dropped and he reached for his glass. Hermione realised she had stopped breathing. Embarrassed, she took a sip of her own drink.

“The point is,” he continued, “if you don’t care about whether or not I marry Astoria, then I will marry her. Not for me, not for my happiness, but for my mother’s sake. On the other hand… if you do care, if you don’t want me to do it, then I won’t. I’ll break off the engagement, upset my mother, because I value my friendship with you too much to go against you.”

Hermione felt uncomfortable. She didn’t want to be an integral part of his decision — this was too much power to have over someone else’s life.

“Draco, I don’t know if I can make this decision for you. I care about you, so if you don’t want to marry Astoria, then of course I don’t want you to do it. But… you’re not making this about what you want, you’re making it about what your mother and I want. You can’t go on basing your life’s decisions on other people… though I have to admit I’m surprised to see you sacrifice so much for your mother. It’s admirable, to say the very least,” she tentatively said.

“People assume that my ambition makes me selfish. I’m not selfish, Hermione, I’m loyal. My family, blood or not, will always come first, no matter what.”

“It’s true,” she replied softly. She inched closer to him and pulled up his sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark tattooed on his arm. “That was why you joined, wasn’t it? To protect your family?” She absentmindedly stroked the tattoo, lost in thought.

He placed a hand under her chin and made her look up to him.

“Yes, that’s why I did it. I also had some severely messed up ideas about blood purity, though I hope that, by now, you know I don’t hold these beliefs anymore.”

“I do.” She pulled his sleeve back down and took a step back. Being in such close proximity to him was difficult — it was clouding her judgment.

“Hermione, please look at me. I’m not asking you to make this decision for me. I’m asking you to tell me how you feel about it,” he begged.

She had resisted this long, but the pleading in his voice was too much for her.

“I don’t want you to do it. Of course I don’t want you to go through with it!” She turned away, embarrassed. “Besides, it’s not like we could stay friends if it happened. Astoria and I… we don’t run in the same social circles, to put it lightly.”

Draco gently tugged on her arm to force her to face him.

“If I married Astoria, it would be an arranged marriage. It would be an illusion. I’m not even sure I’d enjoy sharing a bed with her. You’d come first Hermione, no matter what. Always.”

“Then do it, or don’t, I don’t know Draco! I’m just so confused, and I wish you hadn’t burdened me with this. It’s too much… too much.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, choked sobs punctuating her sentences.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” he replied.

Much to her surprise, he pulled her in for a hug. She cried silently against him, unsure of what was happening. Years of pain resurfaced and she grabbed on to his silk shirt, holding him as tight as she could without breaking his bones.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” she managed to say after a couple of minutes, pulling away from him. “I don’t know what overtook me. I’m just… I’m a mess. I have been for a while.”

“It’s fine.” He grabbed her by the hand and led her to her bedroom.

“Do you have any Dreamless Draught?” he asked gently.

She shook her head.

“I’ll be right back. Lie down, alright?”

She wanted to nod. She really wanted to. She wanted to agree and do as was told — but the alcohol had finally gotten to her head and blurred her usually sharp decision-making skills. Instead of obeying, Hermione got up, grabbed Draco by the collar of his shirt and kissed him.

She realised her mistake immediately and tried to pull away, but it was too late — Draco was returning her kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HHHHHH well?? Anyway, don’t worry, there’s still plenty of obstacles to come their way! BTW that wine bottle? It’s 56 000 dollars lmao (I googled “most expensive French wines” ... I’m about to get some weird ads thrown my way). I’ll hopefully update on Sunday with chapter 9... AKA the aftermath of the reveal. It’s getting intense! Hope you all have a great end of week


	10. Treason’s Sweetened Poison Apple

_Saturday, October 29 th, 2005_

“Her… Hermione?” stuttered Draco.

His cheeks were glowing red with anger. Hermione knew she had to say something, quickly.

“Draco, please, please, don’t assume anything. Let me explain first!”

He didn’t listen.

“Why are you doing this? To punish me? Oh, for fuck’s sake, I should have known the only person on Earth capable to handle working with me would be _you_. I can’t believe I didn’t recognise your voice! You viper!” he shouted, seemingly ready to leave.

Hermione grabbed his arm. “No, I’m not punishing you. Please believe me when I say this was nothing but a coincidence. I’m working undercover… I didn’t even know it’d be for you until I got to the Ministry. I’m begging you, Draco, I know there’s a lot of pain there, but the only reason I’m coming clean is _because_ I feel so guilty, _because_ you don’t deserve to be duped,” she explained, trying to cram in as many words as possible in a single breath to avoid being interrupted.

“Working undercover? Whatever for? All I do is write petty regulation! Stop lying to me, Granger!” he yelled, pulling away from her.

Hermione shot a look at the reception, hoping no one had heard. It seemed the guests were blissfully unaware of what was going on in the gardens.

“I’m not lying. It’s for my next book… I just needed to be inside the Ministry, it didn’t matter where… It just happened to be with you. I tried to get out of it, to get Ernie to release me from my contract, but he has threatened to sue me, so I figured I just had to tell you.” She noticed the darkness in his eyes seemed to soften, if only a little.

“You write books on Muggles and Muggle culture, Granger. Don’t you think I kept up with you? There’s nothing Muggle-like about the Ministry of Magic — quite the opposite, in fact,” he argued.

“Which is the point! I wanted to write something real, something with an impact. I wanted to expose the Ministry for all its nepotism, backwards thinking, and refusal to progress,” she pleaded.

He stayed silent, staring into her eyes.

“That sounds like you, it’s true…” he conceded. The cloud in his eyes was nearly gone.

“If I wanted to punish you, I wouldn’t be here, risking it all to reveal my identity. You know I’m not nearly dumb enough to risk my cover midway through my goal just out of spite,” she added.

“Well, that may well be, but it could also be said that this… this… reveal is all part of the punishment. To get me to feel like a fool for trusting my secretary and trying to help her get a leg up,” he countered — his irises began to darken again.

Hermione felt a tear roll down her cheek. “Do you really think me so cruel?” she asked so softly she wasn’t sure he heard her.

All the tension in his body suddenly dissipated once he realised the magnitude of his accusation. “No, no, of course not. I’m the one who hurt you, after all, aren’t I? Of course you’d never do something like this…” he said, more to himself than to her. He looked up to her. “I’m sorry I even thought it,” he apologised. “But,” he added tentatively, “I don’t understand why you’d tell me. Isn’t this going to ruin your exposé?”

“It could, if you let it. I came clean because of my guilt. I couldn’t let my ethical code wither again, not like it did when…” She turned away, embarrassed. “Anyway, I had to clear my conscience and let you know, because you don’t deserve to have this dropped on you. You could fire me, expose me in the press and doom my writing career… or,” she looked up to him, “we could agree to put our differences aside for now and work together while I write this book. You’d get a percentage of the profits, of course,” she suggested.

He laughed. “Oh, Granger, I’m not going to take your money. I’m not going to expose you, either. After… everything… I at least owe you _that much_.”

“So?”

He took a moment to reflect on it. She could tell he was struggling to trust her — she closed her eyes and waited.

“So it’s a deal. We’ll put our differences aside for now and work together. But please don’t make me out to be an ass in your book,” he chuckled.

“That’s fine by me,” she smiled, feeling a tremendous weight being lifted off her chest.

They stood in awkward silence for another minute.

“I wish I had a cigarette right now,” she whispered, mostly to herself. Her purse was still in the ballroom.

“Here,” he said, handing her one from the pack he kept in the inner lining of his suit.

“Thank you.”

He lit hers and took one for himself. They smoked in peaceful silence, unsure of the ground they stood on. As reconciled as they appeared to be, there was still too much history there, threatening to poison the fragile balance they had managed to strike.

Thankfully, this was the moment Astoria chose to show up. If anything, her unpleasant presence would avoid any further discussion on the subject, for the time being.

“Draco, what are you still doing out? And why are you still smoking those? I thought you stopped,” she shrieked.

“Sorry, dear, we were just talking shop. We got carried away discussing the latest legislation about dragon regulation,” apologised Draco, ignoring her comment about his smoking.

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Of course you were. Even on the night or our engagement party, work has to come first. I knew allowing you to invite _her_ (she pointed her finger squarely at Hermione) was a terrible idea.”

“You did not _allow_ me anything, Astoria. This is as much my party as it is yours, though I regret going along with such a grand affair.” He sounded bitter. Hermione gathered their engagement wasn’t going as well as he had led her to believe, all these years ago.

“Whatever, Draco. The toasts and the first dance are coming up, so I’d like to urge you two to come back in. Though, _you_ (she looked to Hermione) can do as you please, for all I care,” she concluded in a huff before turning her heels and returning to her guests.

Draco sighed and dropped his cigarette on the ground, crushing it with the tip of his shoe.

“No comments, please,” he said, rubbing the back of his head, something he only did when he was embarrassed.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” replied Hermione. “You go back in, I’ll just enjoy the fresh air a little bit more,” she said neutrally. She mostly wanted to avoid the toasts.

Draco began to head back before stopping dead in his tracks, and turned to her.

“However messed up this is, I’m glad you’re here… Hermione.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond and made his way back. Hermione sighed and sat in the grass. For the first time in a long time, she let herself cry — not uncontrollable sobs of anger and frustration, which she was regularly prone to, but actual tears of sadness and longing.

_Monday, October 31 st, 2005_

Hermione came into work feeling lighter than usual. Though she was still wearing her disguise in order to keep her cover in front of the rest of the Ministry employees, she was glad she didn’t have to hide with Draco anymore.

As she walked by the receptionist and noticed she was wearing a fairy costume, it dawned on her that today was Halloween. Which also meant it marked the anniversary of the seventh year since Draco and her had struck up a truce and become unlikely friends. That knowledge didn’t sit quite right with her — it felt like an obvious jab by fate, something her eternally rational mind didn’t believe in but couldn’t help to take into account.

“Hi,” she greeted Draco as she walked into the office. She closed the door behind her.

“Good morning, Granger,” he replied absentmindedly, hunched over yet another briefing.

“So… um…” she hesitated, “is it business as usual?”

He looked up from his desk. “Well, I still need help, but if you need me to free up some time for you to work on your book, you just need to ask. I’m also happy to answer any questions you may have,” he said.

“That works for me, thank you.”

She sat down at her desk and started going through the pile of documents waiting for her. It was unusually high for a Monday morning.

“Have you managed to do all this in the hour you’ve been here?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“No, no, I spent Sunday here… and I didn’t get much sleep, so…” he replied distractedly.

She rolled her eyes. And to think he called her a workaholic back when they were at the London School of Economics.

She returned to work and soon noticed her lunch hour was coming up. She looked up and saw Draco had fallen asleep on his desk. Trying to avoid waking him up, she discretely got up from her chair and grabbed her purse. Unfortunately, she tripped on her dangling shoulder strap and fell with a bang. Draco woke with a start, disoriented.

“Huh?” he said.

“I’m so sorry. I was going to get some lunch, I didn’t mean to wake you,” apologised Hermione, getting up and dusting her knees.

He rubbed his eyelids. “No, it’s fine, I’m hungry anyway,” he responded, yawning halfway through.

“Do you want me to get you something?”

“Actually, do you mind if I join you?”

She must have looked shocked, because he quickly added: “You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want me to.”

“No, no, you’re welcome to join. I’m just surprised you’d want to.”

He got up from his desk and slipped his coat on. “I don’t see why. We’re coworkers, after all.”

“You’re my boss,” she countered hesitantly.

“Technically, but we both know you’re more competent than I. Let’s go.”

They walked out the door. Hermione found Draco’s cavalier attitude strange. It was like he had entirely forgotten she had duped him in the first place — like he had forgiven her for it, in fact.

Once they were out of the Ministry, she noticed he was taking a familiar direction — the deli shop where they used to eat when they were students.

“You still have lunch here?” she asked.

“Not for a long time… but today seems like a good day to honour a tradition of ours, don’t you think?” he said, turning to face her.

She smiled. Maybe he truly had forgiven her. The past couldn’t be changed, but maybe they could build a new present riddled with old dynamics.

Once their sandwiches were served, Hermione cleared her throat and asked something that been taunting her since that Saturday.

“Why did you ask me, I mean Sally, to come to the party? You didn’t have any other colleagues there, save for some of the Wizengamot members, who, I expect, were invited by your fiancée.”

He swallowed his bite. “Well… I was honest in saying I wanted Sally to make some connections. But I also didn’t want to be, you know, alone. Your presence, well, her presence, was comforting.”

“There were hundreds of guests at that party,” she countered.

“Of whom I personally knew maybe three. Astoria even threw out the invitations for Theo, Blaise and Pansy. It was a shitshow. She only let me invite you because I did it behind her back and asked for forgiveness after the fact,” he explained.

“That relationship sounds unhealthy,” replied Hermione without thinking as she bit into her sandwich. Upon seeing his frowned eyebrows, she realised her blunder and immediately felt like taking back her words.

“You, of all people, should know why this is happening, Granger.”

“I’m sorry. I know, but I can’t say I understand it to this day. But you’re right… it’s not my place to judge,” she apologised.

He acknowledged her apology with a nod and grabbed a napkin to wipe the sauce off the corner of his lips.

“So,” he began, “how have you been?”

She put her sandwich down and took a sip of her cola. She wasn’t sure how to answer him.

“Fine, I guess. I took some time to recover and then got to writing… Ernie was all too happy to sign me on, so I just took that opportunity and ran with it.”

“I’m surprised he lets you write about Muggle culture. Intelligent non-fiction isn’t really his cup of tea.”

Hermione laughed. “Oh, trust me, he didn’t want to. He pressured me into writing an autobiography — still does, actually. But I said that if he wanted my name on the cover of one of his books, he’d have to go with my ideas.”

“There’s the Granger I know. I thought your books were really good.”

“You read them?” She was shocked.

“Of course I did. It would be stupid of me to refuse to read a Granger original just because we had a rift. (She pursed her lips — “rift” was putting it lightly.) Anything that comes out of that brain of yours is pure brilliance.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Actually,” he added, “I’m glad you’re working to expose the Ministry. If anyone could do it, it had to be you. Too many things are still left up in the air, and your work could really get the dust to settle. Some change is much needed.”

“I’m hoping this is what will happen, after it’s published. Ernie doesn’t really care, all he could see were Galleon signs and prestige. Not very Hufflepuff of him, if you ask me, but whatever helps me reach my goals, you know.”

“I knew you were destined to be a Slytherin — no offence,” he smirked.

“None taken.” This was a long-running inside joke between the two of them — the very fact that he was making it was a good sign. “Though,” she added, “you’ll have to get yourself some of that Gryffindor courage if you want to survive once the revolution comes.”

He chuckled. “Thank Merlin you taught me how to be brave.”

She smiled. This conversation was painful to have — rehashing old jokes and reminding themselves of their past without really acknowledging it was difficult for her. For this very reason, she chose not to respond — she didn’t want to push things further than she had to.

“Oh, our break is almost over,” suddenly stated Draco as he checked his watch.

“Well, mine is, anyway. You’re the boss,” she replied.

“I don’t like to take more time to eat than necessary. Lots of work to be done,” he stated neutrally, gathering their trays to throw away their sandwich wrappers and empty soda cans. “Should we go back?” he asked once their table was cleared. She nodded and reached for her pack of cigarettes, offering him one. He gladly accepted and they walked back in silence. It wasn’t much, but Hermione felt like this lunch had been a step forward in the right direction.

Once they were back, Draco removed the remaining documents from her desk.

“Wha—”

He interrupted her. “I know you, Granger. If I don’t force you to stop working on my briefings, you won’t do it. Just take the afternoon to work on your book, alright?”

“You really don’t have to. I can do both…”

“I know you can. But there’s no point in exhausting yourself. You’re already exceeding by far the expectations for someone in your position. If you’re even a little late, it won’t matter, you’d still be plenty ahead.”

She didn’t dare argue and thanked him with a nod. He was right. Her first three chapters were due in barely a month, and she still hadn’t gotten to write anything. She took out her notebook, which was nearly full, and began planning her chapter structure. It took her twenty minutes to realise Draco was focused on her.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” she smiled.

“Maybe, but I’m tired. And far more interested in what you’re doing. Besides, I spent my Sunday here, I can afford to take a break.”

“Can’t argue with that. Do you have any questions for me?”

“I do, actually. What kind of notes have you taken since being here?”

“Plenty! Some regarding our work, but most on the structures and systems in place here. I’ve been walking around, befriending other employees, looking at employment charts for every department…”

“I can’t believe I never noticed. When could you possible have found the time to do all that?”

“During my lunch break, mostly. Though I’ve also stayed at the Ministry after work hours plenty of time,” she admitted.

“And what do you plan to do once the book is out? Surely there are going to be some repercussions. I’m not solicitor or anything (he laughed), but…”

“Ernie’s got me covered, or at least so he says. He cleared it with legal first, though I don’t know the details.”

Draco frowned. “You haven’t asked?”

“Erm… no, not really. I tried, but Ernie shut me down fairly quickly. Why? What are you thinking?” she asked, an edge of panic in her voice.

“Well, I mean… criminal law isn’t my strong suit, so I don’t want to stir you wrong. But you’re aware the Ministry has reinstated the death penalty, right? And treason is pretty high on the list of crimes it’s used as a punishment for…”

Hermione turned white. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of that — she was so blinded by her quest of justice that she had omitted entirely the consequences of her actions. This was surely why she had been assigned to Gryffindor and not Ravenclaw.

“Hey,” said Draco, who came to stand next to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. You’ll have me on your side, alright? I’m not ready to see Hermione Granger die, not for a long, _long_ time,” he said softly in an attempt to reassure her.

“You think you might be able to help me?” she asked.

“I might.” He paused and looked pensively at her notes. “Listen, don’t you worry about it. Write your book, it needs to be out there. I’ll make sure I can protect you… Alright?”

She nodded, unsure of what this meant. Not unlike Ernie’s legal team, he was remaining deliberately vague. Unlike Ernie, though, she trusted him — if he said he’d protect her, she knew he meant it.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He nodded and returned to his desk. They sat in awkward silence, averting each other’s gaze, for another minute before returning to their respective work. Hermione knew this day had marked a turning point in their relationship — but, with every step they took to trust each other, their previous issues became harder to avoid. She could simply hope she’d finish her book before it came to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we’re closing in on the first of the three story arcs, only a chapter left for that part! Next chapter might come next week, I’ve been able to write a good chunk of it, but no promises there. If I manage to finish it next week, it won’t be updated before Sunday.  
> Have a nice week-end!


	11. No, Hermione Doesn’t Need Any Help, Thank You Very Much

_Wednesday, June 2 nd, 1999_

Hermione woke with a start. Draco was sleeping peacefully next to her. Hermione panicked: had they slept together? She had a vague memory of her ripping his shirt… of him removing her panties… no, surely they hadn’t! She lifted the quilt to check… no, yeah, there it was, she was completely naked. And so was he. They had _definitely_ slept together.

Hermione left the bed and scrambled to grab her underwear and a T-shirt. She had had sex for the first time and it was with an _engaged man_. This wouldn’t do. Where had her ethics code gone? She couldn’t very well be going around telling people what to do if she wasn’t righteous herself, right? _Right?_

Sighing, she went to the kitchen, turned on the coffeemaker and pressed her forehead against the cool marble of her kitchen counter. What had she done? This wasn’t just any engaged man, it was Draco Malfoy, her friend… one of her closest friends, in fact.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. She usually disliked smoking indoors, but she would have to make an exception today — she was, after all, finding herself in an exceptional situation. She sat there, pensively, unsure of what was to come next. This was the moment Draco chose to make an appearance.

“Hi, Hermione,” he greeted her, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey. There’s fresh coffee if you want any,” she offered.

He nodded and poured himself a cup, sitting across from her.

“So…” they both said at the same time, laughing nervously when they realised it.

“You go first,” said Hermione.

“I just wanted to apologise,” he mumbled.

“For what?”

“You know… for…”

“Oh, come on Draco, we’re not children. We’re both responsible what happened. I’m the one who kissed you, aren’t I? Anyway, it doesn’t matter… You don’t need to apologise. I…” she blushed, “I might have been a bit drunk, but I wanted it just as much.”

He smirked. “Really, huh?”

She frowned. “It doesn’t matter. You’re engaged, it can’t happen again!”

Draco placed a hand on her forearm. “I’m going to break off the engagement, Hermione. Unless… unless you’re not interested.”

“Don’t do it for me, Draco. Do it for you. It shouldn’t matter whether we want to explore this… whatever this is. You owe it to yourself to not marry someone you don’t care for,” she replied gently.

He nodded and drank some coffee. “Regardless, I’d still like to see if… this… could maybe lead to something?”

Hermione finally looked up from her mug. “I need to think about it, if you don’t mind. It’s nothing to do with you, I’m just… still very much a mess,” she said softly.

He smiled. “That’s fine, Granger. Take all the time you need.” He checked his watch. “Oh, hey, your exam is in an hour!”

Hermione shrieked, nearly spilling her coffee in the process. “Oh, of course! Thank you!” she exclaimed, rushing to the bathroom. She took a quick shower and threw on the first pair of jeans she could find. She would have to apparate to make it on time… cursing her past self for drinking on a week night, she slipped on some sneakers and grabbed her student ID and a pen from her purse.

“There’s some food in the fridge if you want breakfast. Talk to you later!” she yelled as she rushed outside the door.

_Thursday, June 3 rd, 1999_

“I’m telling you, Ron, I definitely failed. I misquoted Keynes! That is going to cost me a lot of points,” said Hermione as she dug into her ice cream.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Come on, now, we both know you’re going to score top of your class. _Again_. When have you _ever_ failed an exam?”

“I didn’t get an Outstanding in Defence Against the Dark Arts for my OWLs,” she pointed out, waving her spoon in his face.

Harry laughed. “And you never let us forget it. Besides, that’s not what any rational person would call failing. Though, to this day, I still can’t believe I ever bested you in a class. Well, except for potions during our sixth year…”

“Do not mock me, Harry James Potter. You were cheating with that dreadful book of yours!” she exclaimed.

Harry and Ron both erupted into laughter. It was always easy for them to get her riled up on the subject of school. She frowned and ate another bite of her ice cream.

“Anyway… how’s Auror training going, Harry?” she asked.

“It’s great, actually. I can’t wait to get started… just another few weeks to go and I’ll be assigned to my first task force.”

“That’s great. And how’s Ginny doing? I haven’t seen her since Christmas…”

“She’s just about done with her NEWTs, so she should be coming back anytime now.”

“At the Burrow?”

“Where else?” interjected Ron. “She’s not going to move in with Harry in Grimmauld Place, that’s for sure.”

Hermione laughed. “Come on Ron, she’s not a child anymore. She’s going to be working next year, she doesn’t need to live with her big brother.”

“Yes, she does! Besides, I still can’t believe the Holyhead Harpies hired her fresh out of school. That’s not a job! She’s going to be retired at thirty,” he mumbled.

“Don’t be sour,” Hermione scolded him. “It’s a great opportunity for her! Besides, if she wishes to pursue another trade, she can still go to university later on.”

“So,” said Harry in hopes to defuse the tension, “still hanging out with the Ferret?”

So much for defusing the tension.

“Yep,” replied Hermione, avoiding her friend’s gaze.

“What are you not telling us?” pushed Harry.

Damn the Chosen One. He knew her too well.

“Nothing. I’m just not sure you two really want to hear about it. You still call him “the Ferret”, for Morgana’s sake,” she responded.

“Fine, fine. How’s _Malfoy_?” he insisted, smirking.

“He’s on holiday, his exams ended before mine did. I think he’s going to take a trip to Spain in a couple of weeks,” she answered.

“With you?” asked Ron. She could tell he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“I might join him, yes. He invited me. I’m just not sure I’ll go, I still have some things to deal with,” explained Hermione. She saw Ron was about to protest and shot him down with a look, refusing to elaborate further. “Listen, it’s going to be 5 PM soon, I need to get back. I’ll see you on Sunday, at the Burrow?”

“Sure,” replied Harry, though she noted he seemed suspicious.

“See you then, ‘Mione,” simply replied Ron, grabbing the remainder of her ice cream to eat it.

She smiled at them both and walked home. It wasn’t really that she had anything specific to do, save for some thinking — when Draco had invited her on his trip the previous evening, she had wanted to say yes immediately, before remembering that she still hadn’t made her mind up about dating him. To her knowledge, he was still engaged, though she knew that he would end that in a heartbeat if she agreed to explore whatever they had. The truth was… Hermione was confused. She didn’t know where her head was at, what she was really feeling, whether she was ready to be involved with anyone, much less a good friend of hers _who just happened to be engaged_. She still had recurring nightmares of Fred dying, of her parents rejecting her if she ever came to visit… trauma was still the leading factor in her life, even if she had managed to regain a semblance of normalcy. She was worried she would be making the wrong choice for the wrong reasons.

Once she was home, Hermione noticed a letter had been left on her kitchen counter, most likely dropped off by her owl, Mignonette.

_“Granger,_

_Let’s go have a drink tonight. Carlos’ Tapas and Drinks, 7 o’clock?_

_Draco”_

Hermione smiled. She hadn’t made a decision yet, but a drink couldn’t hurt. She sent him a Patronus accepting his offer and went in her room to get ready. She settled on jean shorts and a tank top — it was slightly out of her comfort zone, but the warm June weather didn’t allow for more coverage.

She fed Mignonette and apparated to the bar. She knew Draco had chosen it to convince her to go to Spain with her — a tapas bar, _really_? Could he be anymore obvious?

“Hey,” she greeted him as she sat across from him. He had chosen the nicest table on the patio — the sun was still hanging up in the air, but the glare from its bright light was thankfully out of their eyes thanks to Draco’s mastery at choosing tables in restaurants. A mostly useless skill, if you asked Hermione, but it had its occasional perks.

“I took the liberty of ordering you a mojito,” he said, pushing the glass towards her.

“Oh, did you?” she smirked.

“Careful there, Granger, you’re starting to sound an awful lot like a handsome Slytherin I know,” he smiled.

“Really? You should introduce me,” she replied innocently, sipping on her mojito. Damn was that bastard right — it was exquisite.

He laughed. “Well, he’s offering you to go to Spain with him, and I think you should agree.”

She frowned. “Draco…”

“Come on, now, Hermione. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just a holiday between friends. I would have offered regardless of, you know…”

“Shouldn’t you be taking your fiancée?” she pushed.

“Not interested. Besides, Astoria is more of a Moscow kind of girl. She says the sun is bad for her skin,” he explained.

Hermione took another sip of her drink. He was right — they were friends after all, and friends went on holiday together. It wasn’t that strange or uncommon. Heck, she had gone to the finale of the Quidditch Cup with both Harry and Ron in fourth year and it hadn’t meant anything.

“Alright, fine, b—”

He rudely interrupted her. “I knew I’d best you!”

“Draco! You didn’t even listen! I insist on having my own room,” she interjected.

“Well, of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said smugly.

_Friday, July 2 nd, 1999_

“How about we go see the Sagrada Familia today?” suggested Hermione during their breakfast.

“When we have the beach _right there_?” countered Draco.

“I don’t know what you have against historical landmarks, Draco. We’re going to have plenty of time to go to the beach! A little sightseeing never hurt anyone. Who knows, you might even learn something,” she scolded him.

He ignored her and stuffed his mouth with the hotel’s oatmeal. He seemed to be in a mood, this morning, though Hermione couldn’t possibly understand why.

“I can’t believe we came all the way here for you to eat _oatmeal_. This is a five-star hotel you know, and they have some tasty traditional dishes.”

“Granger, get off my back and stop being such a pill. This is a holiday, can’t you enjoy anything?” he suddenly said.

Hermione was shocked. His tone was aggressive — it cut her appetite right off.

“I’m uh… I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said softly, before finishing her coffee and leaving the dining room. She shuddered — for a minute there, he reminded her of the Draco she knew back in school, the insufferable little git who took pleasure on hurting her day in, day out.

Hermione went to her room, grabbed her bag, and got ready to leave. He didn’t want to go sightseeing? Fine, she could do it on her own. She didn’t even mind.

On her way out, she noticed Draco running, his face red from the effort.

“Her… Herm…” he began, out of breath.

“I don’t want to hear it, Draco. We’ll talk tonight,” she said coldly.

“But—”

“Tonight,” she insisted, walking away. She didn’t turn back — she was still hurt and refused to acknowledge him for the time being.

The streets of Barcelona glowed red and ocher. The heat licked at her sun-kissed face and coiled around her limbs like a thick hot-blooded serpent. The ground smouldered and sent up a disorientating haze. Even the birds were silent and the clouds stood still — as if too hot to move. She took in that harsh summer glow and slowly breathed in, enjoying the beads of sweat cascading down her skin.

It took her another fifteen minutes to reach La Sagrada Familia. A pillar of Spanish history and architecture, it stood both glorious and unfinished, romantic and gothic. Hermione took in the view, protecting her eyes from the sun’s glare with her hand. She noticed visitors presented tickets to enter and cursed herself — she had forgotten to buy one ahead. No matter — she discretely pulled out her wand and manufactured one, before rejoining the line of tourists ahead of her. She presented her counterfeit ticket to the employee at the counter and walked in. Moving into the passage, she wondered whether the quiet air tinctured with the scent of incense, candles and the more solidly Catholic smell of musty prayer books, metal polish and flowers had held for her parents the same inexplicable sense of calm it held for her.

Since she had learned she was a witch, Hermione had spent much of her time reflecting on God and her belief. She was raised protestant, as were most of the kids in her neighbourhood, and had never thought to question it until she received her Hogwarts admission letter. McGonagall had showed up on a dreary September day with a letter in hand and sat her parents down to explain what it meant. It had taken them a good hour before they were convinced — Hermione had always found it strange that they would uphold rationality as an ideal when confronted with the idea of magic, but not the idea of God. Up until that moment, Hermione’s eternally rational mind had always given God the benefit of the doubt — it made sense that she would do the same for magic. Over time, though, as her intellect and critical thinking grew and evolved, she had come to question one, but not the other. Magic was real, tangible: she practiced it on a daily basis and could trust her eyes to tell her the truth. God, on the other hand, delivered no such proof. He remained mysterious, intangible, unattainable. Thus, Hermione had given up on him and moved on to being a mind of pure rational thought, without any space for nonsense — something that opposed her radically to Luna Lovegood over the years.

Yet, on this summer day, as Hermione strolled through the basilica, God’s presence seemed more like a reality than like a myth. The smell of burning candles commemorating dead loved ones and prayers forced her to question her constant quest for truth and observable facts. She still wasn’t inclined to give in to blind faith, but it seemed unreasonable for her to refuse his existence entirely without considering him to be, at the very least, a possible amongst an infinity of others. After all, how arrogant did she have to be to think she held all the answers to the universe and its existence?

Hermione left the basilica feeling revitalised. She stopped at a coffee shop and ordered an espresso. As soon as the smell hit her, though, nausea overwhelmed her body and she rushed to the bathroom, throwing up the meagre breakfast she had had for the morning. She left the shop still feeling queasy — what could it be? The heat, maybe? She had been prone to heat exhaustion in the past, it only made sense it would hit her the hardest on a hot summer’s day in Spain. Yes, the heat was the obvious culpable.

Dismissing any other potential concerns, Hermione headed for the beach. She sat on the sand and removed her sundress, basking in the sun. She covered herself in sunscreen from head to toe and locked her belongings with an anti-theft charm before dipping into the blue water for a swim. Enjoying the freshness of the water, Hermione noticed the wind had become the orchestral conductor of the sea, sending waves into their crescendos' all through the graceful movement of the water. All she could feel was the perfume of the salty water and the fine spray that came as boldly as any viola flurry. It was as if life herself had entered the water and the energy was so great that this powerful pulse came upward to form a steady rhythm.

Hermione swam for another twenty minutes before regaining her towel. She pulled out a book from her bag and began reading, before another bout of nausea filtered through her and forced her to dig a hole in the sand in order to vomit.

Something was definitely wrong. She was not prone to sickness — this was highly unusual. She knew it couldn’t be food poisoning… had Draco hexed her? No, even the very idea was ridiculous. Shaking her head, she rifled through her bag to search for some antacid. She opened her medical kit and noticed the tampon pouch was still full… but it couldn’t be! She last had her period last week, and she was regular as clockwork.

It then dawned on her that she hadn’t had her period. Busy as she had been with her preparation for the trip and anticipating her exam results, she had entirely forgotten about her period. She couldn’t… she couldn’t be pregnant? Of course not, she’d only had sex once, and surely they had used some form of protection, right? _Right?_

She tried to picture her room the morning after. She couldn’t remember seeing a condom. She couldn’t remember taking a potion — and she had stopped taking the pill before the hunt for Horcruxes.

Gulping, Hermione gathered her belongings, slipped on her sundress, left the beach and walked briskly to the closest pharmacy. She bought three pregnancy tests, just to be sure, ignoring the dirty looks the pharmacist was shooting her. She ran back to the hotel and locked herself in her room. She _could_ be pregnant of course, it was entirely possible, but the odds were so small, so ridiculous, that it was improbable. Steadying her breathing, Hermione walked over to the bathroom, sat on the toilet and held all three sticks of the pregnancy tests under herself — efficiency was her best bet, and she wasn’t sure she had enough liquid in her to take them separately.

Waiting for her body to respond to the urgency seemed to take forever. When she was finally done, she set them on the edge of the sink, washed her hands, and waited. Three minutes was going to be an eternity.

“Hermione?” banged someone on the door.

She jolted. What could he possibly want now?

“What?” she asked aggressively as she opened the door.

“I want to apologise. You did nothing wrong. I was short with you for reasons entirely unrelated to you. I’m so sorry,” pleaded Draco.

“Look, Draco, it’s fine. Can we please talk later?” she said nervously.

He frowned. “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing!” she shrieked, her voice unusually pitchy. Two minutes left.

“You’re lying, Granger. Out with it,” he demanded.

“It’s none of your business, okay? You have your issues, I have mine, let’s leave it at that.”

“We’re friends, Hermione. We should be talking about our issues. I know I was an asshole this morning, but, come on, let’s not repeat my mistake out of spite,” he begged. One minute left.

“This isn’t about you. And I’m nowhere near ready to talk about it, especially with you.”

“Why?” He wouldn’t let it go.

“It’s about my period, okay? Do you really want to know about the blood flowing out of my vagina on a monthly basis, Draco? Do you?” This was her last card.

He paled considerably. “Oh, sorry. I’ll leave you to it, then. We’ll talk later?”

“Sure,” she responded, slamming the door in his face.

She checked the timer. It was time. Hermione took a deep breath — it was now or never. She walked over to the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet to ensure she wouldn’t faint. She grabbed all three tests in one hand and steadied herself with the other. She closed her eyes — this was it. As she opened them, a stream of nausea flowed through her.

She was undoubtedly, unquestionably, unequivocally pregnant. With Draco Malfoy’s child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone.  
> I’m posting the chapter early because it’s already edited. I would have waited until Sunday, but there has been a death in my family and I’m dealing with a lot of complex feelings right now. I won’t be updating for a while, unfortunately, but this situation is difficult for me and still very raw for the time being. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and will hopefully update in three weeks, maybe a month. I haven’t managed to write much since this has happened and I doubt I’ll be able to get much writing done in the coming days, thus breaking my promise of weekly updates. Thank you for your understanding, and I’ll see you when I see you


	12. Worst of Enemies and Best of Accomplices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. I didn’t expect to be back so soon, but writing has helped me deal during this past week and, well… the chapter is done, so might as well post it huh? I’m not doing great rn, but I’m doing better. Anyway… this chapter marks the beginning of the second arc of this story (there are three, each comprised of five chapters per timeline). I’ve been writing non-stop for a couple of days and I’ve managed to write the next three chapters, so I should be keeping the weekly schedule as usual (no promises, but I’ll try — a tight routine is the only thing keeping my head out of the water at the moment). I hope you enjoy it.

_Friday, December 2 nd, 2005_

Hermione sat down at their usual table. Ernie joined her shortly after. He shook her hand and sat opposite from her.

“Well, Hermione, I have to say I’m pleased. Those first three chapters are excellent, as usual,” he stated pompously.

“Thank you,” she replied coldly. She still couldn’t get over his threat.

“The Ministry doesn’t seem all that scary anymore, now, does it?” he laughed, blissfully unaware of her demeanour.

“The Ministry never scared me,” she stated simply.

“Well, then, I will never understand that little hysterical fit of yours! (She frowned — what a misogynistic git.) No matter, you’ve kept your promise, so we can put all that nasty business behind us now. Everyone is still unaware of who you are?” he asked.

“As unaware as ever,” she lied.

“Good, good. Well, is there anything you’d like to discuss with me? You did request this meeting, after all.”

Hermione squished her cigarette butt in the ashtray and finished her cup of coffee.

“Yes, I wanted to address the matter of my legal protection once this comes out. You still haven’t specified the terms, and I’d like to know if I’m going to make it out of this alive,” she stated firmly.

“ _Alive?_ (He laughed.) Of course! But you’re no lawyer, Hermione, you don’t need to bother yourself with all the frivolous legalese. We will protect you, no matter what.”

“Then I don’t see a problem in telling me how it’s going to pan out. You’re not hiding anything from me, are you?” She looked him squarely in the eyes.

“Of course not! But you don’t really expect _me_ to know the details, do you? I run the company, I don’t bother with tedious legal specifications. If legal says it’s fine, then it’s fine! They’ll take care of it when the time comes,” he insisted. She noticed he suddenly seemed very squeamish.

“Alright, then I see no problem in either addressing the legal team myself or having you ask them to send me the details of my legal protection. If it’s a done deal, it shouldn’t be too difficult,” she suggested. She wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

Ernie sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, don’t forget you owe me another two chapters before the new year.”

“I’ll keep my promise. And you’d do well to keep yours,” she concluded menacingly before getting up and sticking him with the bill for her double-shot espresso. _That’ll teach him to act like a snake,_ she thought with satisfaction.

She walked over to Draco’s — they had planned to meet after her meeting with Ernie. They had both taken the day off to work further on her book and to discuss its legal ramifications.

When he welcomed her, though, she forgot all about the book. He looked drowsy and she would recognise that drowsiness anywhere.

“You didn’t,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m so sorry.”

And, just like that, he broke down in tears. Hermione grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the couch.

“I stopped, I really did, for a while,” he sobbed. Hermione was shocked — she had never seen him cry, not really. His whining in third year really didn’t count — though she knew Harry had seen him cry in sixth year.

“What happened, then?” she asked softly.

“The wedding, the stress, work, my father’s death, Astoria… I don’t know. Without you there, it got to me. I should never have done what I did to you, Hermione. I always needed you, and I was such a bastard to you.”

She pressed a hand on his back to comfort him.

“It’s fine, Draco. But you need to stop, now. You need to battle it. A relapse is just that — it doesn’t have to last, it doesn’t have to destroy you,” she said soothingly.

He nodded pitifully and fell onto her lap. She played with his hair for a bit, silently.

“You should go take a shower and some Pepper Up potion,” she finally said.

He didn’t react at first, but ultimately did as he was told. Hermione patiently waited in the living room, racked with guilt. This didn’t happen in a vacuum — they both made mistakes along the way, and she couldn’t help but feel responsible. She knew that if she had done things just a bit differently, if she had tweaked reality even in the smallest of ways, he probably wouldn’t be in this state. And she wouldn’t be sitting on this couch, feeling helpless.

When the water stopped running, Hermione got up and regained Draco’s bedroom. There wasn’t much she could do, so she just fluffed the pillows and rearranged his bed cover. He came in a minute later, still looking dreadful.

“Lie down,” she told him. “I’ll get you some water.”

Hermione rushed to the kitchen and poured him a glass from the tap. In moments like this, using magic didn’t even come to her. Her instincts always were, as they had been, those of a Muggle.

It had only taken her about thirty seconds to grab the glass and fill it, but, once she was back, she noticed Draco was already sound asleep. The fever did that sometimes.

Hermione placed the glass on his bedside table and sat on the other side of the bed. She wasn’t sure why, but she had a feeling he would resent her if she left now. She checked the bedside table’s drawer and was surprised to see that the book she had left all these years ago was still there. _Franny and Zooey._ She smiled and closed the drawer — she knew Draco probably wouldn’t care if she took it back, but she liked the idea of knowing a piece of their past remained steady, unmoved, anchored in their chaotic present.

She made herself more comfortable and stared at the ceiling, reminiscing about the last time she had been there, in that very spot. It had been the last moment of calm before the storm of their ultimate fight, which resulted in them parting ways for the three following years. To this day, Hermione couldn’t believe she had made so many wrong choices in such a short period of time — it was like adolescence had caught up with her after years of being too responsible, too adult. She had read somewhere that children thrown into the chaos of war and violence at an early age acted out later, once the responsibility had faded. She hated to be a cliché, but the truth was that much of her behaviour in the past few years reflected that. She had lost her sense of self entirely, and she was now bearing the consequences of her actions.

A few minutes later, Draco woke up. Hermione could tell he was groggy — he reached for the glass of water and drank its entirety in one sip.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

“Heaps! Thank you,” he replied, rubbing his eyes.

Hermione hesitated for a moment.

“I think you need help, Draco,” she said softly.

“I’m fine,” he groaned.

“No, you’re not. I’m speaking as someone who went through the same thing, remember? You might not need professional help, though I still think you should get it, but you, at the very least, have to deal with the stressors in your life.”

He propped his pillow against the bed frame and sat up. He looked ahead, averting her gaze. “I have responsibilities, Hermione. You know that.”

“That’s an overstatement. The wedding is not something you have to do. Astoria is stressing you out, it’s time to end that relationship,” she responded, her voice edging on aggressive.

He turned to face her. A dark cloud loomed in his irises. “This isn’t any of your business, Hermione. We’re not friends anymore. I’m happy to help with your book and your legal defence, but it stops there. Anything else on your part is overstepping. Am I understood?”

She opened and closed her mouth. “Fine,” she said, getting up. “Don’t worry about helping me, though. You don’t have to. You have too many responsibilities already.”

“Hermione!” he pleaded.

She didn’t listen, too busy trying to contain the tears that threatened to run down her cheeks, and walked out of the apartment. She returned home crying — it wasn’t so much the argument but the fact that it resembled nearly shot for shot the fight they had three years ago, if not less intense. Of course, less feelings were involved this time around.

Hermione wondered whether Draco and her would ever reach a point in their relationship where there would just be peace. It seemed that every time they crossed paths, all they could find was pain and tears, no matter their age or the amount of maturity they had acquired. It was said time healed all wounds, eventually, but in their case, it seemed healing was never an option. Their guts remained opened, with their insides flowing out continuously and dropping at their feet, dripping in blood. Anytime they reconnected, they came with knives and stabbed each other harder than they had the previous time. This couldn’t last.

Unfortunately, Hermione had her hands tied by her contract. She couldn’t quit, not yet — even though she had gathered most of the necessary materials to complete her book, two months undercover just wouldn’t cut it if she were to appear credible to the public. She needed to stick it out — she would have to make do with the scraps of their relationship for the sake of her career’s survival. After that, they could part ways forever — and Hermione would leave.

She wiped away her tears, finally thinking clearly for the first time in years. She couldn’t stay in London, or even in England. The pain of her trauma and unresolved issues was inked into the very buildings of the city — everything reminded her of something painful or atrocious. She would finish her book, have it published and leave. Her contract was up after her fourth book anyway, which _The Lasting Prejudice_ was, so she would be free to pursue other endeavours elsewhere. Yes, this was the best course of action.

Feeling confident in her decision, Hermione picked up a piece of paper from her letter set and wrote to Draco. She told him she was apologetic for interfering (she wasn’t, but it didn’t matter), that she hoped they could keep working together until her book was done and that she welcomed any input he would have in the future (this, too, was a lie, but it was necessary to ensure peace remained). She attached it to Mignonette’s talon and went to lie down. A nap was in order.

_Saturday, December 24 th, 2005_

Hermione smoothed over her dress. She had been invited to spend Christmas Eve at the Burrow, something that she had been more than happy to accept. Whatever her differences with Harry and Ron were at the moment, the Weasleys were her substitute family and she dearly needed them, on Christmas especially. Holidays without her parents were generally hard, but this one had to be the hardest of all.

Refusing to indulge further in her sadness, Hermione walked away from the mirror. She picked up her purse, where she had stored all the gifts after she had placed an undetectable extension charm on it. Once she had checked she hadn’t forgotten anything, she slipped on her coat and regained her car on the street curb. She didn’t use it often, and apparating would be much easier, but she enjoyed driving when her nerves were getting the best of her. It gave her ample time to calm down and focus on something else.

Before she could get in the car, she noticed a familiar shadow walking towards her building. She closed her car door and walked towards the silhouette — she suspected they were coming to see her.

As she got closer, she noticed how blond the silhouette’s hair was. Of course it had to be Draco sodding Malfoy.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in lieu of greeting him.

“Oh, hi, Hermione. I thought you were home,” he said. He seemed embarrassed.

“Well, I’m not.”

“Yes, I can see that. Am I bothering you?” he asked.

“I was just about to drive to the Burrow. I’m going to need to get going soon if I want to be on time,” she responded, tapping her foot on the pavement. She was impatient to leave.

“Of course… Can we talk?”

“Why don’t you get in the car with me? We’ll talk and I’ll drop you off somewhere,” she said, noticing the time on her watch. She had a two-hour drive ahead of her, she needed to get going soon if she wanted to avoid hitting Londonian traffic.

“Sure,” he said, walking over to the passenger side.

Hermione unlocked the car and they both got in. She turned the key in the ignition and off they went.

“Where shall I drop you off?” she asked, her eyes fixated on the road ahead of her.

“Would Malfoy Manor be okay? It’s close to the Burrow, if my memory serves me right,” he answered.

“That’ll be fine. I hope you don’t have a six o’clock dinner planned, though, because this is a two-hour trip,” she stated. “Unless you want me to drop you off earlier so you can apparate there.”

“I don’t mind the trip. Do you?”

“I wouldn’t if I knew what the hell you’re trying to pull, Draco. We’ve barely talked in weeks, you granted me a week off for the holidays, so I just don’t know what’s so urgent that you needed to come look for me on Christmas Eve.”

“You sound irritated,” remarked Draco.

“That’s because I am,” replied Hermione, an edge in her voice.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I wanted to discuss this with you in person.”

“I’m listening. It’s not like I have anything else to do,” she stated, gripping the stirring wheel tighter.

“Well, I have my Christmas dinner with mother and Astoria tonight, as you’re surely aware.”

“Yes, Draco, I know that,” she said impatiently. “It’s not like I’ve known you for fourteen years or anything,” she added sarcastically. “Just get to the point.”

“Right… So, this morning, I was wrapping the presents for mother and Astoria… and as I was looking for the wrapping paper, because I’d run out of the new one and I knew I kept some back in university, I mean it’s not as nice but it does the job—“

Hermione interrupted his rambling. “Wrap it up, Malfoy.”

He pursed his lips, probably to avoid showing her he had found the pun amusing. “Right, sorry. Anyway, I found something. It was something I intended to gift you years ago before, you know…”

“Before we parted ways.”

“Yes, right. So… I just wanted to give it to you,” he concluded.

“You’ve been acting like a shy thirteen-year-old and coming all the way to my apartment on my week off to give me an old gift? No, I don’t buy it,” she responded. “Out with it, Malfoy. This is highly uncharacteristic of you and my patience is running thin.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “It’s not unrelated, actually. I just… I realised you’re right. I need help. I wanted to tell you because of all that crap about Christmas being about forgiveness and whatnot.”

Hermione relaxed immediately.

“That sounds more like you,” she smiled. “I’m glad you’ve come to that realisation, Draco, and I hope you’re willing to accept my help. (She paused — he remained silent.) So, what’s that mysterious gift of yours?”

She sensed he seemed uneasy. “Why don’t you just unwrap it at the Weasleys?”

Hermione frowned. They were now out of London and she could see a gas station not too far ahead. She sped up and parked there.

Turning to Draco, she said: “No, I want to open it now. Just give it.”

She could tell he knew when to admit defeat. He reached in his inside pocket and pulled out a small box wrapped in reindeer wrapping paper.

“I see what you mean about it not being as nice,” she joked, taking it from his hand.

He shot her a reprimanding look, but she knew it wasn’t serious.

“Just open the damn gift, Granger. I’m nervous enough as it is.”

She carefully removed the wrapping paper and uncovered a jewellery bow. Frowning, she opened it. Inside lay a beautiful gold necklace, with a thin chain and a heavy pendant in the shape of a lion.

“The pendant opens with your voice, and your voice only,” he added.

She looked up to him, bewildered. “Oh. What should I say?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Ms Brightest Witch of Her Age,” he laughed nervously.

Frowning, Hermione looked back down at the pendant and whispered “open sesame” as a joke. She didn’t expect it to work — but it did. Inside the pendant was a magical stream of photos. Every ten seconds, a new photograph appeared. Some were of Draco and Hermione, but others included Harry, Ron, Hagrid, Ginny, the Weasleys, Luna, Neville, and even her parents. Hermione stared at it for at least five minutes, before tearfully looking up to Draco.

“How did you do that?”

“I reached out to Potter, actually. He had a lot of the photos I needed and let me replicate them. The jeweller did the rest,” he explained. As he often did when he was embarrassed, he was nervously running his hand through his hair.

“It’s beautiful, Draco. Thank you so much.”

Without thinking, she extended her arms and hugged him tightly. It took her a couple of seconds to realise what she was doing.

“Sorry,” she said, instantly pulling away.

“No, don’t be. I’m the one who should be… sorry. Look, Hermione, when I saw this, I realised you weren’t trying to hurt me and I shouldn’t have pushed you away. Maybe it wasn’t your place to discuss my relationship, but it also wasn’t _not_ your place, you know what I mean? You know me better than anyone, and… honestly, most of this is my doing. You were just trying to help.”

“I made some mistakes too.”

“You have to stop saying that. You didn’t do anything wrong. I was immature. I was an idiot. You did what was best for both of us, and I was never entitled to a say in the situation. My upbringing got the best of me, and it shouldn’t have. It shouldn’t have…”

Hermione started the car up again to make sure she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye when responding. This discussion was far too intimate. They kept swinging from cold professionalism to warm confessions, and it messed with her head.

“So… what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t think I can go back, now. Look, Astoria can be annoying, and even downright awful at times, but I still care about her. She has been nothing but caring with me, it wouldn’t be fair to her,” he replied.

“Would it really be unfair to her? Don’t you think she deserves to be with someone she loves?”

“She loves me. I think.”

“Right,” responded Hermione. The last thing she wanted was another fight, so she was going to keep her mouth shut this time around.

They endured the remaining hour of the trip in complete silence. Soon, Hermione checked the GPS she had enchanted on her dashboard.

“Malfoy Manor is two miles away. Do you mind apparating from here? I don’t want to get too close…”

“Oh… oh, of course,” realised Draco. “Thank you. So… I’ll see you after the New Year, then?”

“Sure. Merry Christmas, Draco.”

He smiled. “Merry Christmas, Hermione,” he said, getting up. He closed the door behind him and Hermione soon heard the familiar _crack_ of apparition in the distance.

For some reason, despite being absolved of all guilt by Draco, Hermione felt heavier than ever. She started up her car and drove the remaining miles to the Burrow, focusing intently on the road to avoid thinking about it. She’d have plenty of time once she returned home.


	13. A New Ending to An Old Beginning

_Monday, July 19 th, 1999_

Hermione Granger had never wanted children of her own. Even when she was a child herself, she found them to be too tedious, too dependent, too stupid for her liking. She wouldn’t mind babysitting Harry’s kids eventually, and even Ron’s if it came down to it, but having children of her own had always been out of the question.

Being pregnant hadn’t changed that. In fact, the perspective of giving birth terrified her so much that it had reinforced her decision to remain free of the shackles of motherhood. Forever.

She also reasoned that, even if she had wanted children, this couldn’t come at a worse time in her life. The father was engaged to another woman! She hadn’t completed her studies! She wasn’t financially secure enough! Having this child made no sense. The logical solution had thus presented itself to her quite naturally.

It was for this very reason that she was seating in the waiting room of an abortion clinic on a sunny Monday morning. Ginny was by her side, still stunned by the news.

“I can’t believe… if Malfoy Senior knew, he’d have a heart attack!” she said.

“Yes, well, he’d deserve it,” replied Hermione. “But that’s not an invitation for you to tell anyone,” she warned, pointing a finger in her friend’s face.

“I know, I know! Don’t worry, I’ll carry your secret to the tomb. I’m just… at a loss for words.”

“I can hardly believe it myself,” whispered Hermione, more so to herself than to her friend.

“You have to tell me though… how was the sex?” asked Ginny excitedly.

“Well, I don’t really remember, now, do I? But I’m sure it was adequate,” shrugged Hermione.

“Adequate? Come on, I know that, as a proud Weasley, I should never admit to this, but have you _seen_ him? He’s so hot! I’m sure he’s amazing.”

“You’ll have to see for yourself, then, because I’m not reiterating the experience.”

“Hermione… the pregnancy shouldn’t change anything. It was a one-time mistake, it happens to the best of us. But you both clearly have feelings for each other, otherwise we wouldn’t be here!” countered Ginny.

“Ever heard of hook-ups, Miss Weasley?”

“Sure, but that’s not really your thing, now, is it? It was your first time, too! I don’t think you’d have initiated anything if you didn’t have any feelings for him,” she argued.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling, if I’m honest. Besides, it doesn’t matter, he’s engaged. The press announced it not long ago.”

“Who cares? He’s willing to break it off, Hermione, you’ve said so yourself! You know, I really don’t get you. You’ve always been this reasonable, level-headed, communicative person. It’s like I can’t recognise you anymore. Keeping secrets and refusing to talk things out… it doesn’t just hurt him. It hurts you too.”

Hermione sighed. Deep down, she knew Ginny was right. This wasn’t like her. After finding out she was pregnant, Hermione had spent the remainder of her Spanish holiday with Draco pretending everything was fine — at no point had she considered telling him what was going on. She chalked up her regular bouts of nausea to the seafood whenever he became suspicious and justified her constant napping by pretending the year had taken its toll on her. Neither were complete lies — nor were they the entire truth. The reasoning behind the secrecy had taken some time to make it to her conscious: she was scared. No matter how much she wanted to believe that Draco had truly changed, part of her still thought he’d react terribly to learning that, on top of impregnating a Muggleborn, said Muggleborn was determined to end the pregnancy. Hermione knew, objectively, that Draco had done everything in his power to distance himself from his conservative upbringing, but she couldn’t help but feel that, if he were faced with her current predicament, he would revert to his old ways. It was probably unfair of her… but trauma did things to her she couldn’t always reasonably justify.

“Well—” she began in response to Ginny.

She was interrupted. “Hermione Granger?” A nurse had called her.

“See you later,” gently said Ginny, pushing Hermione from her chair.

She waved and followed the nurse. Though she was sure of her choice, she was nervous — nervous at the idea of feeling pain, of feeling loss. She had researched the magical procedure beforehand, but it had to be done at St Mungo’s, and she was scared someone would recognise her and it would lead to a nationwide story about it — which was the last thing she needed. She had thus decided to go the Muggle way, something she felt more secure in doing.

The nurse (Elizabeth, if she was to believe the name tag attached to her scrubs) led her to a small office in the back of the building.

“Here, sit down. I’ll take your vitals to make sure everything’s fine, and then I’ll take you to the doctor’s.”

Hermione nodded. The nurse recorded her pulse, her respiration rate, her body temperature and her blood pressure.

“You’re good to go. I’ll fetch Dr Clarke, just wait here, alright?”

Again, Hermione nodded silently. She could feel her heart in her throat.

The nurse exited the office and, a minute later, Dr Clarke entered.

“Ms Granger?” she offered, extending her hand.

Hermione shook it. The doctor walked over to the desk and sat down.

“Well, everything looks good to me. You’re less than ten weeks pregnant, your vitals are fine, and you’ve tested negative for all STIs. The counsellor also cleared you. You’ve already chosen the method, I believe?” summed up the doctor, looking at her chart.

“Erm… yes… I chose the abortive pill,” replied Hermione.

“I see no medical reason why that shouldn’t happen. Do you know the procedure?”

“I have to take one of the pills now, and another in two days, I think?”

“That’s right. The first pill should be pain-free, but I do recommend that you don’t take the second one alone. It will cause bleeding and be painful — speaking strictly from a physical standpoint, it’s difficult to manage alone. The risk of any further complication is extremely unlikely, but, of course, not entirely impossible, in which case you need to refer to the closest emergency room and inform the clinic so we can follow up with you afterwards,” explained Dr Clarke.

“Understood.”

“You’ve signed the consent form, correct?”

“Yes…” replied Hermione, rifling through her bag to fish out the crumpled piece of paper. She wasn’t usually this disorganised, but the stress was getting the better of her. Embarrassed, she tried to smooth it and placed it on the desk.

Dr Clarke smiled, filed it away and reached for the medical cabinet behind her. She grabbed a box and handed it to Hermione.

“Here is the first pill. You can go sit on the examination table to take it,” she recommended gently.

Hermione obeyed. She sat down, feeling dizzy but ultimately confident in her decision. She popped the pill and downed it with the cup of water the doctor handed her.

“Alright then?”

“Yes… it’s fine,” replied Hermione.

The doctor handed her a second box. “This is the pill you’ll have to take in 48 hours. Good luck!”

Hermione nodded and gathered her belongings.

“Oh and Miss Granger? There are free condoms at the reception,” added the doctor before returning to her desk.

Hermione blushed and exited the office. Ginny was still waiting for her near the reception.

“Well?”

“I have another pill to take in two days. She said I shouldn’t do it alone, because there’s going to be bleeding and pain. Will you be there?” asked Hermione anxiously.

Ginny smiled and placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“Of course I’ll be there. I’ll just tell Harry we’re having a girls’ night in.”

_Saturday, July 24 th, 1999_

“Draco, you know some shady people, right?” asked Hermione.

He frowned and hesitated before answering. “Sure, I know some. Why?”

“Well, do you remember Halloween?”

“Sure. It was a fun night. What does that have to do with me knowing “shady people”?”

“I don’t… I mean… I enjoyed the feeling the ecstasy gave me, you know. I’d like to reiterate the experience,” stated Hermione neutrally, doing her best to keep her eyes fixated on her whiskey glass. She could feel Draco’s stare burning through her.

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Well maybe I’m tired of being me, ever think of that?” she spat, turning abruptly to face him.

It wasn’t about the abortion. It wasn’t even about the fact that the guilt of not letting Draco know was eating her up. Well… maybe it was, in part.

It had been over a year since the end of the war. A year of normalcy — no Voldemort, no Death Eaters, no dark magic interrupting her schooling. She should be doing better by now — yet, her mind was at its worst place yet. She could feel the pain burning through her, seizing her throat and yanking her breath away from her. Acting like everything was normal was beyond her. She’d never see her parents again, never see Fred or Tonks again, never be the same. Never again. And now, to top it off, she was a common slag, sleeping with engaged men and hiding her pregnancy away from them. Well, at least _one_ man.

“Hermione, I’m worried about you,” softly said Draco.

The iron grip of her guilt climbed up her throat and made her gag.

“Don’t, Draco. I’m fine. I’d just like to have fun. Isn’t it what our university years are supposed to be about?” she retorted, finishing her whiskey in one sip.

“Alright, fine. I’ll get in contact with someone,” he relented.

“Can’t you just give me their info?”

“You’re not doing this alone, Hermione. I’m allowed to be worried, aren’t I?”

“Fine.”

She saw Draco eyeing her from the corner of her eyes and ignored his pressing stare. If he had any questions, he would have to ask them.

“So, what are we doing tonight?” she asked.

“I have a dinner with Astoria, I thought I told you already.”

“Right, of course. _Your fiancée_ ,” spat Hermione venomously.

Draco looked shocked. He seemed ready to shout, but, instead, his composure softened and he pressed a hand to Hermione’s cheek, making her turn to face him.

“She doesn’t have to be. Just say the word, and—”

“Don’t. Just don’t. I’ve already told you to make your own choices, Draco. Own up to it like a man.”

He was taken aback by her harsh tone and his hand fell back on the table. “Whatever, Granger. I don’t know what’s up with you lately, but I’m not enjoying hanging out with the Gryffindor equivalent of Pansy Parkinson. See ya!”

He got up, dropped ten pounds on the table and left the pub, presumably to get ready for his dinner date. Hermione pursed her lips — he was right, she was being unnecessarily harsh. He hadn’t done anything wrong and she was acting like a hidden mistress. Something was wrong with her — multiple things, actually.

Fed up with herself, Hermione left the booth and went over to Harry and Ginny’s, hoping they didn’t have anything planned for the night.

“Hi. Got time to hang out?” she asked once they opened the door.

“Sure! Ron and Luna are here too, come on in!” enthusiastically said Ginny.

Hermione noticed the coffee table was covered in charcuterie and various cheeses. Two red wine bottles were placed on each side, and one of them was already empty.

“Oh, you’re having a wine and cheese party,” remarked Hermione as she hung her jacket on the coat rack.

“Yes, it’s fun! You’ve been to France, right? You might be able to tell us what wine we should pair with the charcuterie,” laughed Harry.

“Well, I was twelve when I went, so probably not… but I guess I could try.”

She followed them into the living room and sat on one of the empty couches. She could see Ron and Luna’s silhouettes in the kitchen.

“They seem to get along,” commented Hermione.

“Yes, I set them up actually,” joyfully responded Ginny.

Harry groaned. “I’m sorry, Hermione, I tried to stop her, but you know how she gets.”

Ginny looked offended. Wanting to avoid having to witness them fight, Hermione interjected.

“Why, Harry? Ron and I are just friends. You know that. I’m happy he’s moved on.”

It rang false, but it was true. Hermione wasn’t bitter about Ron, she had turned him down and knew that this decision still held up. She wasn’t really bitter about anything, in fact — she was mostly just unhappy to see her friends doing so well when she was still crying herself to sleep on a regular basis. How did they do it? They had been through as much Hell as she had, after all.

Ron and Luna chose that moment to return to the living room.

“Oh, hi Hermione, I wasn’t told you’d be joining us,” greeted Luna airily.

“Oh, yeah, no, I just dropped by unannounced. I hope that’s okay with you guys.”

“Sure,” said Ron. “Always happy to see you, ‘Mione.”

She smiled. Hearing that nickname suddenly made her feel a little better and she relaxed.

They spent the evening acting like adults twice their age, sipping on expensive wine and tasting extravagant cheeses. It was the most fun Hermione had had in a while — she left feeling considerably more upbeat. The wine had warmed her insides, but her friends had a bigger part to play in this.

Unfortunately, Hermione’s enjoyment of the evening was cut short once she made it to her building. Draco was standing in front of the entrance, seemingly waiting for her.

“What’s up?” she asked as she pulled out her keys from her purse.

“Astoria’s parents ambushed me at the dinner. I know things aren’t great right now, but would you mind letting me in?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I owe you that much after the way I behaved at the pub.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s my fault, really.”

She turned to face him, confused. “How so?”

Draco shrugged. “I just think I’m rubbing off on you, and given that I’m not the nicest bloke to begin with…”

“Don’t do that, Draco. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just going through some things, right now, which doesn’t excuse my horrendous behaviour obviously, but, you know… it’s got nothing to do with you,” she replied gently. _Well, not directly anyway_ , she added mentally.

She stepped off the elevator and unlocked her front door. Draco followed suit.

“So, what exactly happened at that dinner?” asked Hermione as she plopped down on her couch.

“I was supposed to meet with Astoria to discuss the specifics of our engagement. How long, if it was just supposed to be a façade, when we would move in together, the whole shebang. But, when I got there, I noticed the table was set for four, and, of course, she showed up with her parents. We barely talked during the entire dinner — her father was the one making all the conversation, attempting to pressure me to all matters of ridiculous things. He wanted me to sign a prenup benefiting her, would you believe that! I’m twice as wealthy as them! So I said “no fucking way” and I told them they needed me more than I needed them, which… honestly… is technically true, but also a total bluff. They have more social standing than I do, they could get my mother un-banned from a hundred different places…” he ranted.

“If this is just about your mother, why go through with it? Marrying Harry would have exactly the same effect,” Hermione pointed out.

Draco laughed. “Me and Potter… really… oh, you’re too funny!”

“Not literally, Draco, obviously. I mean… anyone who was dubbed a War Hero would do the trick. Doesn’t matter who, I’m pretty sure your mother could overlook it if it benefited her. Right?” argued Hermione.

Draco took a beat to think about it. “You may be right. Besides, my mother’s prejudice was always more circumstantial than anything. So (he got up and started pacing) if I were to marry, say, you (he turned to face her), then it would all work out fine.”

“No, not—”

He pretended he didn’t hear her and continued, resuming his pacing. “Yes, I don’t think she’d really care. Father would be pissed, of course, but that’s honestly just cherry on the cake.”

“Drac—”

“And it would be pretty revolutionary, wouldn’t it? A Malfoy-Muggleborn alliance of sorts. Bringing all sorts of change to the contemporary wizarding world…”

“DRACO!” shouted Hermione, getting up.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

“What the fuck are you going on about? I never agreed to marry you, and here you are musing about all the great things we could do. We’re nineteen, for Merlin’s sake! This may be a normal marrying age for Purebloods, but it’s not for Muggles and Muggleborns. I don’t want to enter into an arranged marriage with a friend of mine. We’ve never even dated, and we just had sex once. Fuck, talk about putting the cart before the horse!”

She could tell she was crying, but she was too angry to try and stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks. She took a breath and kept going before he could interrupt her.

“And what is that? A Malfoy-Muggleborn alliance? I have a fucking name, Draco, I’m not just some random Muggleborn you can use to pretend your family were never fucking bigots who actively had a hand in killing hundreds, if not thousands, of people like me! I couldn’t give any less of a fuck about your fucking social standing, or your mother’s for that matter! I’m trying to be helpful because for some mysterious reason you can’t be bothered to grow some balls and end this terrible engagement like a grown man, but that doesn’t entitle you to make me a pawn in your fucking Royals soap opera. Every time I think you’ve truly changed, you go on and fuck it up with some ridiculous behaviour. Fuck you, Draco.”

She fell back down on the couch and started sobbing uncontrollably.

“Hermione…”

“I don’t… want… to hear… your… excuses,” she managed to say in between sobs.

“No excuses, I promise. I’m so sorry. I can be such a git. I didn’t mean to… you know what, it doesn’t matter what I meant to say. I fucked up.”

Her sobbing began to die down. She pulled a tissue from the box on her coffee table and blew her nose in it.

“Can I come sit with you?” he asked.

She nodded unconvincingly and he sat next to her.

“I’m going to end the engagement, alright? All on my own, no back-up, no trying to manipulate the situation. I’ll talk it over with my mother at brunch tomorrow.”

“Do whatever you want, Draco. Just stop acting like you’re making your choices based on me. End the engagement because you want to, not because we fought. I’m tired of this.”

She got up.

“Don’t come back until you’ve stopped using me as an excuse. Be an adult, and then maybe we can resume this friendship.”

And, on those words, she walked over to her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I’m a bit nervous, to be honest… I understand this will probably be controversial and some readers may not like it. I’m, however, firmly pro-choice and I stand by that — this story has a pretty heavy political subtext, so I don’t think this turn of event is very surprising, but anyway. Please note that I am neither a doctor nor in the UK: the scene at the clinic was researched beforehand, but I haven’t found the answers to all my questions (is there a consent form? if so, when is it signed? and other such details) so please do not take this scene as an exact depiction/representation of abortion in the UK. I try my best to stay accurate in my depiction of 1990s/2000s London, but I don’t have enough first-hand knowledge to ensure that it is completely realistic, nor do I have the time to check everything down to the last detail.   
> If you find yourself in Hermione’s situation and would like to weigh ALL your options, there are hotlines for all countries with an abortion act/bill. There are also MANY conservative organisations pretending to be official hotlines and doing everything in their power to turn you away from the real information. Always go to your country’s official Ministry of Health’s/official healthcare provider’s website to have access to all the information in order to make an informed and safe decision for yourself! Anyway, I usually don’t feel the need to be this preachy, but this is an important topic, and I wanted to make sure I had all my bases covered. Please be safe out there and I’ll see you next week.


	14. Merry Christmas, Arsehole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone.  
> I'm sorry to be this late. This chapter has been finished for weeks, but my own life is a mess right now, and I completely put publishing it out of my mind. I'm very sorry! I hope to be back to posting on a regular basis, as promised. Happy holidays to you all

_Saturday, December 24 th, 2005_

The Weasleys, Harry and Hermione groaned simultaneously, feeling full.

“Amazing meal, as always, Molly,” commented Hermione. She could feel her dress being stretched a little too much for her comfort.

“Thank you, Hermione,” joyfully replied Molly. She seemed to be the only one with a semblance of energy left in her. “Night cap, anyone?”

Everyone replied in agreement.

“Don’t get up, Molly, I’ll do it,” said Hermione, leaving the table.

“I’ll help,” added Ron, following her to the kitchen.

He reached for the bourbon on the highest shelf while she prepped the glasses.

“So, what’s been up with you?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Not much, just work, I guess. What about you?”

He hesitated for a moment. “Don’t say anything yet… but Luna and I got engaged. We’re going to announce it later.”

The tips of his ears were burning hot. Hermione gathered this is why he offered to help her. He wanted to let her know ahead — why that was, though, she couldn’t fathom.

“I’m so glad for you, Ron. You guys seem really happy,” she smiled.

“Really? You’re not… mad?” Ah, there it was.

“Why would I be? I haven’t expressed anything negative towards your relationship since you and Luna started dating. I don’t see why I would start now.”

“I know, I know. It’s just… do you remember, on orientation day, when we were…”

“You said you wouldn’t wait for me. And you didn’t. And I never got mad. I’m truly happy, Ron. My behaviour, it’s got nothing to do with you, or Harry, it’s just… it’s my problem, okay? I’m not regretting the relationship that never was between us, I truly mean it when I say I think you and Luna make a great couple.” She paused. “Is this why you never brought her over for Sunday brunches?”

He scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, a bit… Though, mostly, it’s because Luna used to spend Sundays with her father. But he’s dead now… so… you know…”

Hermione dropped the glass she was holding. It shattered all over the floor and she groaned. She picked up the broom and started to gather the broken bits of glass.

“What are you doing, Hermione?” asked Ron. He pulled out his wand. “ _Reparo_.”

He picked up the glass and rinsed it in the sink to remove the dust. Hermione was flustered — she took a step back and let him deal with it.

“Luna’s father died?” she asked, shocked.

“Yeah. The funeral was two weeks ago.” He placed the glass back on the tray and poured the bourbon in it. “You didn’t know?”

“No… I guess I’ve really messed up with you guys, haven’t I? All this distance I put between us… it makes sense you’d think I was just jealous. I guess,” she said hesitantly.

“We’re still trying to figure it out, Hermione. One evening you’re having wine and cheese with us, and the next you’re gone. Disappeared.” He paused, pushed the tray, and turned to face her. “You don’t show up for the Sunday brunches, you forgo any event you’re invited to, no one spots you in Diagon Alley, you stop replying to letters… You were just gone, like we weren’t your friends anymore. And then, years later, you come back, because of course we kept inviting you, and you act like nothing’s wrong. You’ve refused to explain yourself, and we were so scared you’d pull the disappearing act again that we never pushed you on it. But we’re all pissed, Hermione. And sad. And confused. We love you, but all the trust that kept us together as friends just melted away… none of us know what to make of it. You go up to George buying up supplies like you’ve always been there… And, you know him, he acted like everything was normal, he joked around, because that’s just how George is. But he was hurt. We’re all hurt,” he concluded, tying knots with his fingers.

Hermione put both her hands on the edge of the sink, trying to steady herself. She couldn’t cry, not now, not here. Looking out the window, she whispered.

“How about… we get together after everyone’s gone to sleep. And I’ll explain it all. What do you think?” She turned to face him, unsure of whether he had heard her.

He picked up the tray with all the bourbon glasses. “That sounds like a good first step.”

They returned to the dining room. Hermione was feeling queasy and wondered whether drinking the bourbon was a good idea. Deciding she was done making the wrong choices, she pushed her drink over to Harry, who happily drank it for her.

By midnight, they had moved over to the living room and were all engaged in a passionate discussion about the latest wizarding TV show. Hermione remained quiet, anxious about what she would have to do later. Ron was right — she had kept her friends in the dark for far too long, ignoring their attempts to help her out. Ginny especially, who had known more than the others, had been so hurt by Hermione’s complete turn around that she had refused to come for Sunday brunches once Hermione had started attending them again. Earlier this year, she had started coming back, but still dutifully ignored Hermione.

Her train of thought was interrupted by Ron and Luna getting up. Ron cleared his throat a couple of times before all eyes were on him.

“Hi, everyone. This Christmas has brought more joy to me than I can say. The past month has been hard on us (he squeezed Luna’s shoulder, who seemed like she was about to cry). But, as hard as it has been, I have good news and I hoped you’d all be here so you could partake in them. We’re missing Bill, Fleur and Victoire, who are in France, but, other than that, everyone I love is here, so it seemed like there wouldn’t be a better moment to do this.” He paused, while expectant eyes all seemed to burn through him. He took a breath. “I’m happy to announce that I’ve proposed to Luna, and she’s agreed to marry me.” The spark illuminating his eyes was so bright Hermione felt her worries melt.

The news was met with tremendous happiness. They were hugged by everyone and questions started pouring about the upcoming nuptials. Once Ron and Luna had responded to all of them, Molly and Arthur yawned ostensibly, prompting everyone to go to bed.

Hermione had been assigned the pull-out couch in the living room — as the only single person and non-Weasley in the house, it made sense. She pulled out her pyjama from her purse, changed into them and lay down on the dingy couch. Her anxieties were in full swing — she relied on Ron to ask Harry, Ginny, George and Luna to come down, and didn’t know how many of them would accept the invitation and listen to her. She was also deeply ashamed of her behaviour in the last six years, and wished she could know in advance how her friends would react. It was a shame she hadn’t taken to divination in Hogwarts.

She waited for another ten minutes before finally hearing footsteps coming down the stairs. Once they had made their way to the living room, she noticed they were all there, including Ginny. Harry cast a silencing charm and they all gathered around her. She sat up — her heart was pounding and she leaned against the wall for fear of passing out.

“Hey everyone,” she said softly. “I’m aware I owe you all far more than an explanation, but I thought I would begin there.”

She was met with silence. This was her own doing — they were all scared to say the wrong thing and have her disappear again, like she had done six years ago.

“So… I love you all, but I’ve been struggling with my pain so much that I made some incredibly selfish and unethical choices. This isn’t an excuse… it’s just… how things happened…” she began.

She then launched into her story, ensuring she left out no detail. The war trauma, her parents, Draco, Draco’s engagement, having sex with Draco, aborting, the guilt of not telling him, the desire to numb the pain, the spiral she fell into in order to numb that pain, the decisions she made, each of them being worse than the one that came before it, and, finally, the night that forced her to decide to put an end to it all.

“I had to turn things around. That night convinced me that I had to make proper changes. I contacted Ernie and began writing my books. I holed up for another year to make sure I had a system in place. I made progress with tremendous difficulty, but I somehow made it out of that Hell I was in. Right when I started being a published author, and not just the dead memory of some war hero, so about two years ago, I came out of hiding and that’s what pushed me to come back to the brunches. Another terrible decision, of course, was to pretend like nothing had ever happened. I was, and still am, ashamed, I wanted to put the past behind and move forward. I kept working on my books, avoiding Ernie’s pressure to make me publish an autobiography about those years… Then, back in September, I had an idea. I decided that, instead of just being an arsehole and writing books no one cared about, I could try to make some changes to the world we live in.”

She continued and caught them up with the present. The book idea, the supplies at George’s and Ron’s joke shop, working undercover, hiding from Draco, the legal clusterfuck she was in, and, finally, telling Draco the truth.

“So… here we are, I guess,” she concluded. She wiped the tears that had rolled down her cheeks and hugged her knees to symbolically protect herself from what was to come.

Surprisingly, Ginny was the first to react. She dragged herself across the pull-out couch and hugged her. Touched, Hermione broke down and cried in her friend’s arms.

“Thank you for telling us,” whispered Ginny in her ear.

“I’m so sorry,” said Harry. “I was mad at you, but I can tell you never had bad intentions in the first place. You were just struggling.”

Hermione sniffled. “Sure. I’m still so sorry I was such a terrible friend to you guys.”

Ron remained silent. His eyes were fixated on Hermione, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. George and Luna had backed away — it seemed that they knew that, as much as they were Hermione’s friends, this wasn’t about them.

Hermione and Ginny had stopped hugging. Hermione turned to Ron.

“Is there anything you’d like to say?” she asked. Her voice was trembling.

“I don’t know, ‘Mione. I’m upset.”

“About my silence?”

“No, that I understand. I would be ashamed too, if I were you.” That hurt. “Fooling around with Malfoy? Being his friend wasn’t enough? Thank Merlin you got rid of that child though, Morgana only knows I wouldn’t want to see my best friend give birth to Voldemort 2.0,” he spat.

Hermione was shocked. Where was the mature Ron she had come to know and love?

“Is that really what upsets you the most?” she murmured.

“I don’t see what else there is to say, ‘Mione. He’s the one who caused all your problems. Of course I’m upset.”

Ginny slapped him. He stared daggers at her and rubbed his cheek.

“You know I’m right, Ginny. The Hermione we know would never have pulled that crap of her own volition.”

“Ron,” gently said Hermione. “I’m not the same person I was. I lost that years ago… I’ve been trying hard to move on, but I’ve made a lot of mistakes along the way. Many of those mistakes Draco tried to stop me from doing… I know he was an arsehole in school, but this was eons ago. Please don’t blame him for the things I did.”

“Oh, I’m not just blaming him, don’t worry. I’m blaming you too, Hermione. Acting like a whore, that’s definitely not something I ever suspected you’d do.”

Before Hermione could respond, she noticed Luna getting up and running up the stairs, her face covered by her hands.

“I don’t want to talk about it with you any more for now, Ron. I think you should go up there and comfort Luna, because it seems you’ve upset her.”

He shot her an angry look but didn’t argue and followed Luna back to the room they were sharing. Hermione dropped her head between her knees — she could feel the anxiety crawling up her insides and pressing on her lungs. She was having a harder time breathing.

Harry placed a hand on her back. “Hermione, don’t listen to Ron. He’s shocked, he doesn’t know how to comfort you, so he’s being a git. It won’t last.”

“I know,” sniffled Hermione. “I just… I think part of him is right.”

“No part of him is right,” interjected Ginny.

They both hugged her and gently attempted to lull her back to sleep. Hermione pretended to go along with it and waited until they were back in their room to get up from her makeshift bed. She quickly changed back into her dress, pulled her notebook out of her purse and wrote her friends a note.

_“I haven’t disappeared. I just need a little time. I hope you all enjoy the presents. Merry Christmas. Hermione.”_

She placed it on the coffee table, grabbed the remainder of her belongings and silently slipped out of the house and into her car. She needed to drive and clear her head.

About an hour after she was gone, she heard her mobile phone ding. She had received a text — a rare occurrence, as she didn’t know of anyone else in her circles having one. She pulled over at the nearest resting stop and pulled her phone out.

“Hey, it’s Draco. Guess what! Mother got me a cellphone for Christmas. I remember jotting down your number a while ago, glad I still have it. Merry Xmas Granger.”

She smiled. It would definitely be easier for them to communicate that way.

“Hey there. Glad to see your mother’s coming around when it comes to Muggle technology. Merry Xmas Malfoy.”

She shoved the phone back into her purse and drove away from the stop. She looked at the GPS — she was further from home than she had been in a long time. Truth be told, she didn’t see herself going back to London just yet. She needed to process what had happened in the last few months — alone, away from everything and everyone else. She drove through the night, until she reached the small coastal town of Penzance, at about five in the morning. As should be expected of such a small town, everything was still closed. She noticed a car park near the beach and parked over there. Yawning and stretching, Hermione stepped out of her car and reached for her pack of cigarettes — enjoying a cigarette in the cold morning air was the only thing that made sense to her at the moment.

Once the cold started biting her fingertips too strongly for her liking, she went back into her car. She grabbed her thickest plaid from the backseat and wrapped herself in it. She rifled through her purse to find the book she had brought, when she noticed her phone showing a new text message on its screen.

“Doing okay at the Weasleys?”

“Not great. Too long to cover in a text. I left during the night and drove off.”

“Sorry to hear that. Where to?”

“Some coastal town. How was dinner with your mum? And Astoria?”

“It was fine. I had to make a thousand decisions for the wedding. Boring.”

“Should have eloped when you had the chance.”

“LOL, like Astoria would ever let me.”

“Since when do you know to use ‘LOL’?”

“I’m hip, Granger. Get with the times.”

“LOL ‘hip’, sure Malfoy. Why are you up so early anyway?”

“Haven’t gotten to sleep yet. Astoria has been wearing me out.”

“Ew."

“Not like that, you pervert. She wanted to finish all the wedding planning tonight.”

“Why the rush?”

“She moved up the wedding date. Don’t ask why.”

“When is it?”

“Just before we get back to work. On January 1st.”

“Oh, wow. Congrats, I guess?”

“Don’t bother, Granger. I know you’re not happy about it.”

“It’s not really any of my business, now, is it?”

“Funny you’d say that, you generally don’t have a problem meddling in other people’s business.”

“Whatever, Malfoy. Happy wedding to you.”

“I was joking, Granger. We had this discussion yesterday!”

“Fine, then, if you want my opinion, just don’t go through with it. You’ll be unhappy for the rest of your life.”

No response. Sighing, Hermione lay down her phone on the passenger seat. The fatigue was finally catching up to her… without noticing, she fell soundly asleep at the wheel of her parked car.


	15. It Doesn't Take a Genius to Self-Destruct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: drugs, drug use, drug abuse, drug addiction. Please note that not only is the TW is necessary for the entire chapter, but that it is pretty heavy.

_Friday, October 1 st, 1999_

Most prominent universities had these kids — the rich, well-connected, spoiled ones. Hermione had managed to find them easily enough — all they required was their work done for them, and she could get whatever she wanted in return. What Hermione wanted couldn’t be sold: she wished to go back in time, to reset the clock on her entire life. Fortunately, there was a substitute that could definitely give her _the impression_ of turning back the clock — and that substitute was drugs. She hadn’t tried them all — heroin was a big no-no in her book, and meth seemed too risky. Pot was fine, but it didn’t erase her reality hard enough to be truly satisfying. Ecstasy did the job every once in a while, though the down she experienced after was too hardcore for the experience to be worth it. Ketamine helped in a pinch, and so did LSD. None, though, helped with her restless nights and her constant fatigue.

The clock had turned hundreds of times before Hermione did the math and figured out her best option. She must have been too tired to make the connection sooner, or too disconnected from her world. Either way, it took her an excruciatingly long time to think of the solution: magical drugs. Wizards had their own alcohol, their own tobacco — surely they had their own drugs too.

The logistics of drug dealing in the wizard world were much more of a pain though. She was famous — she couldn’t just wander around Knockturn Alley looking for drug dealers, or a scandal would have been afoot. Again, it had taken her much too long to find a viable solution to her problem. She had first thought of Polyjuice Potion, but brewing it was far too long and exhausting, and apothecaries were forbidden from selling any. Finally, tired of scrambling for a solution, Hermione had given up — until she noticed that Rebecca, the snooty asshole from her Economics of China class, was unrecognisable without her make-up. Of course, the simplest solution was a Muggle one — it made sense. Improving on her classmate’s skills, she used several glamour charms and heavy coats of eyeshadow to finally be able to wander into Knockturn Alley and look for what she needed.

Once she had mapped out the area in her mind, finding drug dealers was the easiest thing she had ever accomplished. Knowing which ones she could trust, though, was another thing. Much like a sociologist, she spent her afternoons fraternising with them, figuring out the patterns in their behaviour and the logistics of their operation. The deeper she sank, the less she recognised how erratic and dangerous her behaviour was. Something in her had cracked that summer — perhaps it was losing Draco, or perhaps it was realising she had never moved on from anything, or perhaps to was both. Whatever the cause, she was now in a downward spiral of her own doing, and it became increasingly difficult to appeal to her reason. Not that anyone tried — she was avoiding her friends like the plague, and Draco and her hadn’t talked since their fight in her apartment.

On that Friday afternoon, she met up with Saros, who provided her with some pretty good magical mushrooms.

“H’ya there, Lumana,” he greeted her, using the fake name she given him when they first met.

“Hey Saros. Got anything good for me today?” she asked.

“I’m all out, sorry hun,” he apologised.

She looked at him, incredulous. “What?” The craving was speaking for her.

“Don’t worry yerself, hun, I got sumn new you might like,” he replied.

She didn’t reply, waiting for him to elaborate.

“D’ya know of the Dreamless Draught? Ya heard of it, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. What about it?” She felt her hand shake.

“Well ma boss made a damn good version of it. Knocks you right out. No dreams, guaranteed! It’s pretty strong, I gotta tell ya, but it’s good. Better than the mushrooms, I reckon!” The marketing ploy didn’t land as hoped.

“I could just get that at the apothecary, Saros,” Hermione argued.

“Na, hun, ya didn’t hear me right! It’s a whollot better, innit? It’s like those mushrooms ya like, but no hallucinations!"

He could tell she remained unconvinced. He seemed to fumble for a minute, and finally said: "Actually, hun, it _has_ the mushrooms, but with other great shit in it.”

“How about a free sample, so I can tell for myself? And if I like it, I’ll be back to buy some from you,” she offered.

“I don’t do freebies, hun.”

“Not even for loyal and returning customers? That’s not great for business, Saros.” She was like a dog with a bone.

“Fine. Ya drive a tough bargain, I gotta admit,” finally relented Saros. “Here ya go,” he said, handing her a small vial, containing a purple potion.

“Dreamless Draught is colourless,” she said skeptically.

“Well it ain’t Dreamless Draught, now, innit?”

“We’ll see,” said Hermione. “See you in a week.”

“See ya, Lumana.”

Hermione walked out of Knockturn Alley, hoping she wasn’t seen. As she was about to apparate, though, a hand grabbed her arm.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Granger?” She recognised that voice immediately.

“Let me go, Malfoy,” she vociferated, pulling away from him.

She managed to get away from him long enough to apparate back to her apartment. Panting, she sat down on her couch and removed her scarf and multiple layers of coats and cardigans. She was just about done when she heard a banging on her door.

She threw the door open. “What?” Because, of course, it had to be him.

“I can’t believe what I just saw. A drug deal in Knockturn Alley? Is this really what you’ve come to?”

“No thanks to you,” she spat.

He looked hurt. “What the Hell have I done to warrant this? You’ve made your bed, Hermione. Not me. I never encouraged you to do this.”

She pursed her lips, knowing that if she attempted to argue any further, she’d just spill the beans.

“Whatever, Malfoy. You’re saying I’m responsible for my choices, but I haven’t seen you taking any accountability for yours. Is that engagement still going on?”

“That’s none of your business, Granger. As far as I’m concerned, we’re not friends anymore, you burnt that bridge the last time around.”

“I told you to come back once you stopped acting like a child. That’s a Hell of a long way from just ending our friendship. But if you want me to tell it like it is… then… I’m assuming you’re deflecting to avoid telling me you’re still fucking that Pureblood fiancée of yours.”

He stared daggers at her. “You’re being such an asshole. I can’t even recognise you anymore. You used to be so level-headed, reasonable and sweet. What the fuck, Hermione?”

She dismissed him with a sweeping hand gesture. “You and Astoria still a thing then?”

“Why do you care? In love with me, are you, Granger?” he snickered.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? The tormented falling in love with her tormentor? Such a sweet story,” she spat. “You wish, Malfoy. I’m just curious to know whether you grew some balls. Or are you still hiding underneath mommy’s skirt, pretending your choices are entirely hers?”

“Fuck you. Don’t you dare speak about my mother like that!”

She laughed. “Or what? Are you going to hex me? Are you going to run to mommy and tell her a girl was mean to you? You haven’t changed, have you? You’re still just that precious little Mal—”

He didn’t give her a chance to let her finish — his lips were on hers, whether to shut her up or to kiss her, she couldn’t say. She pushed him away.

“What the fuck! You wanker!” she yelled.

He kicked the door shut. “You liked it enough the first time around.”

“Yeah well the first time around, I was too drunk to tell the difference between my left and my right. You could have just as easily been Professor Flitwick — I would have done the same.”

He laughed bitterly. “Stop lying to me. We both know that’s not true. I don’t know what’s up with you, Hermione. Just let go of the anger and tell me what’s going on.”

“Still engaged?” she persisted.

He sighed, seemingly ready to give up. “Not anymore. Happy?”

Hermione felt something twitch in her stomach. She hadn’t expected to hear that.

“Now that I’ve owned up to my mistakes and ended my engagement, will you just calm the fuck down and tell me why you’re being so weird? What’s with the drugs? Why are you so aggressive?” His tone was pleading, which softened her, if only for a second.

“ _The Prophet_ didn’t mention your engagement ending. It should have made the front page!”

“We kept it quiet, for fuck’s sake. Why do you fucking care, anyway? It doesn’t matter! None of this matters!”

“Of course it fucking matters, Draco. How will we ever be friends if you can’t find it in you to be honest and real with me? Yeah, maybe I’m a cliché, maybe I’m a walking stereotype of the Gryffindor straightedge morals, but that’s what you signed up for when _you_ came up to me and asked _me_ if we could ever be friends. That’s the fucking deal.”

“You’re going to bring up your moral sense when I just caught you red-handed doing one of the least ethical things I can think of? Really, Hermione? Take a look at yourself!” She wanted to yell, to punch him, but she could feel in her gut that he was right. Her moral compass was warped, dislocated.

Draco didn’t add anything to her silence for a while. Then, he placed a hand on her cheek. “Your eyes are bloodshot,” he whispered. He lowered his hand and placed a thumb on her mouth. “Your lips are dry.” He moved his arm and ran his hand through her hair. “Your curls are damaged.” He shifted over to her neck, motioning as if to strangle her. “Your skin is pale, blue and purple. Sickly.” Lightly moving down, he nearly cupped her breast, but caught himself and rested his hand on her ribcage. “You’re so thin. You’ve lost so much weight.”

His light as a feather touch made her lips tremble. She knew every comment sounded terrible, like he was degrading her, but she could tell worry filled his words. He wanted her to understand how much he cared for her. Perhaps it was because she was touched, but Hermione truly couldn’t tell you what overtook her next. Perhaps her outlandish, erratic behaviour couldn’t be stopped — she was too far gone. This may explain why, instead of responding, she grabbed him by the waist and pressed her lips to his.

She half-expected to be pushed away like she had pushed him minutes earlier. Surprisingly enough, he leaned into the kiss and began ripping her clothes apart. She didn’t bother to protest and ripped his shirt in return. Soon enough, they repeated a mistake they had already made once — though a condom was used, this time around.

“What is wrong with us?” asked Hermione, staring at the ceiling, once they were done.

“No clue, Granger. We’re behaving like horny teenagers in a crappy teen movie.”

She laughed. “Referencing Muggle tropes now, are we? I never expected this from you.”

He turned to face her. “Seriously, we need to talk.”

“I’m tired of talking, Draco. That’s all anyone does anymore! I’m done talking. I’m obviously much more of a mess than I used to be, and talking hasn’t gotten me anywhere.” She got up, slipped her panties on and returned to the living room. She grabbed the vial from her coat pocket and noticed Draco had followed her.

“Don’t do it.”

“It’s just some Dreamless Draught, Draco. It’s harmless,” she argued.

“If it wasn’t anything more than that, I don’t see why you needed to sneak to Knockturn Alley to buy it. Any apothecary worth his salt has entire shelves of it.”

She was growing impatient of his constant questioning. “Fine, it might be somewhat tweaked, but it’s still harmless.” She knew it was wrong, but her desire to be right was overriding her reason.

“Why don’t we put it to the test? We both know how to isolate a potion’s components.”

“You know what? That’s not a bad idea. That’ll mean I can brew my own next time, instead of buying it from Saros. He’s nice enough, but his pricing can be outrageous.”

She walked over to the kitchen and pulled out her potion-making supplies, laying them down on her counter. She popped open the vial and began working. Draco was staring at her, speechless.

“Hermione…”

She shushed him and proceeded to keep isolating the ingredients. He watched her intently. Even at her rock bottom, her gestures were precise and calculated. Underneath that angry veneer, the brilliant Hermione Granger still lurked — somewhere.

“Done,” she joyfully said about an hour later.

Beads of sweat were dripping down her naked chest, provoked by the thick fumes her experiment had brought on.

“Well?” asked Draco.

“It’s a simple Dreamless Draught. Though they did add this component,” she replied, holding up one of the small vials. Its liquid was clear, if a little thick.

“What is it?”

“It looks like some crushed magical mushrooms. They’ve been obliterated into a thin translucent powder and mixed with water,” she explained. She hardly noticed what she was saying, too enthralled by her discovery.

“Don’t take it, Hermione. Just… don’t,” begged Draco. “Magical mushrooms… that stuff messes with your head.”

She shot him a confused look. “I’ve been taking them for a month, I feel fine.”

Draco paled considerably. “I understand, now.”

“What do you understand?” she asked, exasperated.

“Hermione, I’m assuming you’ve done your research before taking that stuff.”

“Sure,” she replied.

“And what did you find?”

“Not much. They’re mostly harmless. Not unlike Muggle magic shrooms, if a little stronger because they’re cultivated by merpeople. Which makes them unlikely to give you a down phase once the high is over.”

“Right. They produce endless dopamine, so much dopamine that your brain turns to mush over time. Your brain can’t take it, it makes you angry, it makes you lash out.”

“How would you know that, Draco? It’s not in any book I’ve read.”

He sighed. “Sure, not in any of the white magic books, because no one but dark and dark-like wizards even looks at this stuff. The right books will tell you it will kill you.” He paused. “You know, my great-grandfather dabbled in magical mushrooms. He was an incredible chemist, he truly was. But that stuff messed him up. It destroyed him. He wasn’t even taking any! The fumes, the texture, everything about them completely wrecked him. He went from being a sweet and doting father to a raging asshole. It was a complete turnaround from who he was. It made him reckless, angry. And it killed him,” said Draco as he approached the kitchen counter.

In a swift motion, he snatched the vial from Hermione’s hands.

“This stuff (he pointed to the vial) will kill you. Why do you think it’s only sold in Knockturn Alley? Wizards dabble in much more chemistry than Muggles, and we’re more open to drugs and drug-like components. It shouldn’t be hard to find them if they were perfectly harmless.”

Hermione laughed. “Really? Weren’t you at orientation at the London University for Wizards? There’s a complete ban on drugs.”

“Right. On some drugs. A lot of what Muggles and Muggleborns consider “drugs”, we think of as vital ingredients for our potion-making. What we call “drugs” is that stuff — the stuff that obliterates you, the stuff that apothecaries won’t touch with a ten-foot pole because of how toxic it is. Dreamless Draught is like, what, sleeping pills, right?”

Hermione narrowed her gaze. “Well, yes, sure…”

“And sleeping pills are heavily regulated in the Muggle world, aren’t they?”

She swallowed. “They are, it’s true.”

“That’s my point. Dreamless Draught is accessible to any wizard of age because our drug regulation is so loose. We consider that to be harmless. Do you get it?” He was pleading now.

Hermione was frustrated. Deep down, she knew he was right – she had always known. But knowing wasn’t the point – the mushrooms worked magic on her, they dissolved her obscure thoughts. She nearly let out a sob but caught herself and spat. “So, what, Draco? I’m supposed to just live with my pain? Drink Dreamless Draught every once in a while and pretend like everything’s fine? It doesn’t matter if that shit kills me.” She was on the verge of crying — what was up with her?

“What pain? Hermione, just talk to me!”

“No! I don’t want to. There’s nothing to say. Everyone’s moving on, leading happy lives, and I’m stuck in the past, forever doomed to suffer and relive the worst years of my life. I’m done being the reasonable one, it’s done nothing to help me, _nothing_. Sure, reasonably speaking, I should be dealing with this like an adult, but, guess what Draco? I’ve been the adult my entire life. Getting Ron and Harry out of trouble, making sure my parents didn’t miss any appointments, making sure they _lived_ by sending them away, dealing with everyone’s pain, fighting a war I was involved in by pure chance, just because I was friends with the Chosen One, having to save said Chosen One’s ass at every turn. Everything always fell to me. I’m supposed to be done with that shit and, yet, here I am, having nightmares every single night, making bad choices every chance I get, acting like a worthless whore. What do you expect me to do? It’s like another dimension opened up and swallowed me whole.” She was now sobbing uncontrollably.

Draco placed the vial of liquid mushrooms on the counter and hugged Hermione.

“Alright, well… I can help,” he whispered to her ear.

“How?” she asked, eyes sparkling with tears.

Gulping, Draco pulled away from her and reached for a vial that had fallen out of his pocket as she had undressed him.

“This,” he said, “is true Dreamless Draught. Not the apothecary watered-down stuff. I’ve been mixing my own recipe for years. It’ll really help — I know because it has helped me for years, ever since I was recruited by the Death-Eaters and would go entire nights without sleeping.”

Hermione grabbed the vial and stared at it.

“Hermione, I have to warn you…”

She popped the cork and brought the vial to her lips before he could go on. It was too late.

As she fell to the ground, on the brink of sleep, Draco whispered. “You’ll never want to stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure what y'all think with this one. I'm aware it makes Hermione seem OOC, but I'm trying really hard to convey that she's acting like this because she's lost herself completely.  
> Anyway, please tell me what you thought!


	16. No Rest for the Wick… the Witches?

_Monday, December 26 th, 2005_

Penzance offered a variety of nice boutique hotels. Hermione had chosen the first one that came her way after napping for four hours in her car. She had crashed on the bed as soon as she had found her room and slept for another forty hours, right there and then.

She woke up two days later, deeply dehydrated and completely disorientated. Her phone showed over twenty missed calls from Draco. Rubbing her eyes, she first quenched her thirst and downed her entire water bottle in one swift gesture. She stretched, reaching for the stars, feeling out every bone and muscle in her stiff body. It took her another twenty minutes before she felt finally awake – only then did she return Draco’s call.

“Hi,” she mumbled, her throat sore from the sleep.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes, sorry, I was sleeping,” she replied, trying to find the strength to get up.

“For two whole days?” He sounded worried.

“Yeah, I was exhausted. I wasn’t trying to avoid you or doing anything reprehensible, okay? I was just catching up on my sleep,” she said defensively.

Draco backed down. “Alright, sorry. I wanted to talk to you.”

“I gathered as much.” Twenty missed calls! Did the bastard have any idea how rude that was?

“Look, the wedding is in six days…” he began. He sounded unsure.

“I’m aware. What about it? I’ve already offered my opinion on the subject.” Hermione had finally made it out of bed and was rifling through her handbag, looking for her cigarettes.

“Why do you think I’d be unhappy?” he asked after taking a beat.

“I mean, are you happy with her now? Because it doesn’t seem like it. I don’t see how setting that relationship in stone would help,” shrugged Hermione, heading for the balcony.

“But she loves me, doesn’t she?”

“How should I know? We’re not exactly close friends. Maybe she does. But it’s not the point. Do you love her?” retorted Hermione, fumbling with her lighter.

“You know I don’t. I have to go through with the wedding, though.”

“Do you? Because all this talk of responsibilities is awfully vague. Unless she’s pregnant with your child, I don’t know where your responsibilities towards Ms. Snotty-Pureblood lay.” She was tired of repeating herself.

“I broke the engagement once. Breaking it twice would be humiliating for her.”

“Well, you know what they say.” She didn’t bother finishing her sentence, too busy trying to light her cigarette. Ha! Finally!

“What do they say?” he asked cautiously.

“Fool me once, that’s you. Fool me twice, that’s on me.”

“I did not fool her!” angrily retorted Draco.

“Didn’t you, though? You first got engaged out of a desire to get your mother the social standing you think she deserves. Then you broke it off because you realised it wasn’t what you wanted. And _then_ you got back with her because that’s what made you feel safe. It was the comfortable choice. She should have known not to take you back. She already knew you didn’t care for her. And you still don’t,” Hermione stated neutrally, exhaling her smoke into the cold coastal English air. “Besides,” she added, “why do you think you keep seeking me out to talk about it? You did it six years ago, you’re doing it again now. You’re hoping I’ll endorse this mess so you can go into it peacefully. But let me tell you something, Draco Malfoy: I’ll never endorse you making yourself unhappy for no good reason. Whatever we may be now, I don’t believe you should wreck both your lives for status and tradition. So, I’ll just say this once, and then never speak on it again: don’t get married. Or, if you do, just admit you’re doing it out of cowardice. Choose whatever path seems best for you, but don’t be dishonest about why you’re choosing it. Stop lying to yourself – it’s not just hurting you. I may dislike Astoria, but this will eventually break her, too. If you care even the littlest bit about her, you’ll set both yourselves free,” concluded Hermione. Her voice was steady, unencumbered by messy feelings. This was her reason finally taking back the reins it had unjustly been denied for so long.

She could hear Draco’s breathing on the other end of the line. He seemed to take in all her words, to finally realise the magnitude of what he was undertaking.

“Thank you, Hermione,” he said weakly after a minute.

“Sure thing, Draco,” she replied softly. “Enjoy the remainder of your holiday.” She hung up.

If she was to start anew, renewing her bond with her friends wasn’t enough. She also needed to stop being involved in Draco’s messes and let him sort them out for himself.

Hermione returned to her room and sat down at the small desk. She pulled out her laptop from her bag (thank Merlin she had thought to bring it with her) and got back to writing. She had managed to reach the third quarter of her manuscript before the holidays, and was hoping to have the entire book written by the time she returned to work. Anything she would learn after that would be used to nuance some of her rawer chapters – and then, quite obviously, she would quit. This was the end of a long road – not only would she leave her writing behind, but it also meant a definite, permanent goodbye to Draco Malfoy, the man whose presence had turned her life around, twisted it, only to finally destroy it. She couldn’t pretend that she was innocent in this – but she sometimes wondered how she would have worked through her pain had they not become friends. It was useless to try and rewrite their story now that the past was behind them, but Hermione’s logical mind always sought out the alternative routes, even those stuck behind her.

Sighing, she put her head between her hands and decided to give Ernie a call to update him on her progress. She input his phone number in her cellphone — he had one, though he seldom used it. She had a chance out of sixty to reach him.

The other end of the line rang for about a minute, but he did pick up.

“Granger. Tell me the latest,” he said right off the bat.

“Uh, well, I’m nearly done with the manuscript. I have a nearly complete rough draft, and I’ll refine it over the month of January with additional notes and observations. I should be able to turn it in two months before the deadline,” she explained. She couldn’t help but sound proud — this project had been the most interesting in her short writing career, and she had managed that deadline like a pro.

“Really?” asked Ernie monotonously.

“Is that really all you think? May I remind you that you practically threatened me with a lawsuit if I gave up or finished late?” she retorted angrily.

“Right, right. That’s great, Hermione. Talk to you soon,” he said, hanging up.

She dropped her phone on the desk, shocked. There was something up with him, but she couldn’t fathom what it was. Perhaps he was still hungover. Yes, that must be it.

Hermione returned to her manuscript and managed to crank out another chapter before she heard her phone ringing. The caller ID showed her it was Draco.

“Hi, Draco.”

“Hi there, Hermione. Are you free to talk?” Well, at least he asked.

“Sure, I have a little time.”

“Where are you right now? Back in London?”

“No. I haven’t returned yet. I’m still in the town I told you about. I need a couple of days to myself, away from everything” she answered, wary of his intentions.

“Can I come?” He sounded nervous.

“I’m not sure it’d be a great idea, Draco. I’m still working on my manuscript. Besides, one the main reasons I need a break is… well… you,” she said tentatively. She could hear his disappointment before he even replied.

“Right, of course,” he sighed.

Hermione shifted her weight and let the silence settle in. She knew he hadn’t hung up because he expected her to changer her mind. He knew her all-too-well and she hated herself for that.

“Fine, you can come, I guess. Not for too long, though! You have to be gone by tomorrow,” she compromised.

“Great. Thank you so much. Text me your location.” He hung up. She stared at her phone, bewildered. He’d only ha the thing for two days and he already knew how to use it better than she did.

Reluctantly, she typed the address of her hotel and sent it. She wondered for a moment what was so urgent, so pressing, so important that he needed to see her right this instant.

Fortunately, the torture of her invading thoughts ended quickly. She heard a knock at the door just a minute later.

“Hi,” she greeted him, opening the door. She remembered for a moment that she hadn’t showered in three days and was still wearing the clothes she had last worn when she drove him to the Manor and pursed her lips in embarrassment. Merlin, why did she still care so much about this man’s opinion…

“Hi,” he replied, walking in, the sweet smell of his aftershave drifting through the air. Hermione wished she had thought to take a shower before his arrival.

He sat down on her bed, taking in his surroundings. She closed the door and leaned against it, unsure of what to say, what to do. They hadn’t been alone in a room since their fight at his place – and even then, his groggy and drugged state just hadn’t rendered the same state of intimacy, even if they were in his bed.

“I’m just… I need to take a shower,” abruptly said Hermione, heading for the bathroom. She locked the door and turned on the water, feeling depleted. Whatever happened, whatever awaited her on the other end of that door, she would be clean. At the very least.

She emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, wrapped in a towel. She dug into her overnight bag for some clean clothes and Draco turned away, keeping his distance. She dropped her towel and quickly got dressed.

“So,” she began. “What’s up?”

As innocent as the question seemed, it was loaded with subtext and the subtle intricacies of their past. Draco couldn’t just say everything was fine, or that work was overwhelming, or that his mother had been pleased with her Christmas present. He had to say something true, something real. Something that justified crossing the country urgently and interrupting her time off. He knew this just as well as she did – which is why, perhaps, he took and agonizingly long time to answer.

“Well, I thought long and hard about what you said. I think, perhaps, I’d known it all along.” He took a pause and Hermione waited. He never kept going.

“I’m not surprised you knew but failed to recognise it,” she egged him on gently.

“Yes, of course. You’ve always been wise, maybe too much for me. So… I listened to you, but, most importantly, I listened to myself. Everything you said resonated within me, and all those buried feelings came bubbling to the surface. The pain, the refusal to just become a carbon copy of my father, the desire to be free from ridiculous expectations, to live my own life and to give Astoria the chance to do the same… I sat her down and told her we needed to end it. I offered to reimburse any money she had put forth for the wedding, of course…”

He seemed out of breath. Hermione sat down on the bed and slowly placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingertips barely touching the silk of his shirt.

“She cried. It was painful to watch, to listen to. She sobbed and cried and wailed, and she said she couldn’t believe I was doing this to her again, so close to the wedding. She slapped me, broke a vase. She was inconsolable, and I have to admit I was tempted to take back my words, but I didn’t. This pain is momentary. She’ll get over it,” he concluded, more harshly than he had probably intended it to.

Hermione dropped her hand to her side. She knew her question would seem inappropriate, but she had to ask it. After all, she wasn’t Draco’s confidante anymore.

“And why did you come here?”

It was barely a whisper. She wasn’t sure she heard it. The wind was knocking against the windows, drowning her, drowning them.

“I…” he began. He stopped for a moment and looked out the window. “I don’t know, Hermione. Having you back in my life, I guess I wanted to pretend things were the same. I know I said I was just willing to help with your book and nothing more, and I know I acted like a wanker for most of the time we’ve spent together since you’ve told me you’re not really Sally. But, deep down, I missed you. I missed your sound advice, your strong temperament, your desire to help me do better.” He paused again and started fidgeting with her bed cover. He was still staring out the window, avoiding her gaze. “There’s one more apology I owe you, I guess. I keep messing up and hurting you. I’ve been doing it long before we were even friends. I don’t know how to be around you. You’re too… too pure for me.”

Hermione couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. He turned around abruptly, shocked.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “It’s just… pure? I’ve already told you not to put me on a pedestal, Draco. I made mistakes. You know what those mistakes are, because they drove us apart just as much as yours did. I’m not pure. I’m more reasoned, maybe, more logical, more in tune with my feelings… well, maybe not even that, I guess. I don’t really know who I am, even after all those years.”

He put a hand on her cheek and she immediately pushed him away, knowing this could only lead down a road she’d already banished from existence.

“Don’t, Draco. This never works out. It’ll just hurt us more.”

She got up from the bed and reached for her pack of cigarettes. She offered him one, and they went out on the balcony. The wind had died down, if only a little. The air was cold, as could be expected on a December day in southern England, but Hermione didn’t reach for her sweater. The cold helped untangle her confused thoughts.

“I can’t be your friend anymore, Draco. I don’t think this (she pointed her finger at him, then at her, waving it between them) works. It didn’t when we were dumb university students. Why should it now? Neither of us is capable of any real commitment, of any kind. Do you know what I did at Christmas? I told my friends why I abandoned them. And as I was telling it, it sounded like I was making up excuses. Because I was! I was saying the truth, recounting true events, but it didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like a real reason for giving up on them. And then!” She turned to face him, her cheeks rosy from the cold and the frustration she was feeling. “Then, what did I do? I just up and left. In the middle of the night. Just like that. I left a note for good measure, but what good does a note do when you abandon those you call family before Christmas morning, with only gifts to remember you by? I’m no good, Draco. And neither are you.” She took a puff from her cigarette, watching the ashes drop below her as she flicked them. “Because you’ve been so caught up in your mess that you didn’t even think to ask me how my Christmas Eve went, despite the fact that I sent you a text saying it didn’t go well and I left. I was in my car! In the middle of the night! Didn’t that make you want to call me? To check up on me? To comfort me? You just rambled on and on about this wedding, this pitiful little wedding with absolutely no meaning, because now it’s gone, you’re single and you don’t seem very remorseful, to be honest.” He looked like he was going to interrupt her, but Hermione was too far gone. She was pouring out her heart to him. “Which is fine, Draco! I’m not judging, I’m the one who told you to end it if you weren’t happy. _I_ did that. So who am I to judge? That’s my point, don’t you get it? We’re both selfish wankers. Maybe I used to be pure and to care about house elves, but then a war happened and all I could do was mope around. While everyone was attempting to rebuild the society we’d helped save, we were moping around, getting high and being assholes to one another. Just like now. I’m so focused on this idiotic book about prejudice, and unfair treatment, and inequality and oligarchic institutions, but that’s just the ghost of Hermione talking. Real Hermione is holed up in here trying to make sense of the world without ever participating in it.” She ended her tirade, breathless. Her cigarette had consumed itself and she dropped its butt in the wind, red and embarrassed. She hadn’t meant it to come out like that – she didn’t know why it had.

Draco never answered her. They spent the remainder of the day in complete silence, working on opposite sides of the room, their backs turned. The weight of their past, of their respective behaviour, was just too heavy for them to bear even looking at each other. Hermione had finally poured the words they had been too afraid to admit to, too cowardly to face. For Draco, a Slytherin, this may have been fine – but for Hermione, it was so shameful her entire body felt crushed under boulders. The boulders of her mistake.

By midnight, they had decided to go to sleep. For some reason, Draco still hadn’t returned to the manor. Hermione expected Astoria was still there, trashing the place and reuniting her belongings. She let him sleep in the same bed as her – telling him to go home felt cruel, and she was tired of being cruel.

They laid next to one another in complete silence. Hermione was shivering – though she wasn’t sure why. The room was warm, and even a little stuffy. Draco’s body heat felt like it was a thousand degrees, even though there was a respectable distance between them. Uncomfortable and unable to find sleep, Hermione shifted from position to position, until she relented and turned on her right side, thus facing Draco. She noticed he wasn’t sleeping either – he was staring at her.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, finally breaking their silence. He was about to shift to face away from her, but she stopped him.

“No. It’s fine.”

They stared at each other in silence, maintaining the proper distance, as two adults who are neither lovers nor relatives do when faced with such a predicament. And though Hermione knew that to be their current situation, she felt an odd tingling dragging along her skin, longing for touch. Longing for his touch. It had been years since they last slept together, but her body remembered every movement, every touch, every breath. Worse, it yearned for more. There she was, having held on to the firm belief that the drugs had dulled her senses and killed her libido, only to find out the only person who somehow managed to reawaken them was the one person she couldn’t touch. Shouldn’t touch. And would soon have to let go forever.

Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes and she quietly sobbed, knowing full well she couldn’t escape his gaze without raising questions. She thought he’d ask her why she was sad, why she was crying. But he did no such thing – instead, he lifted his hand and brushed the tears off her face, gently caressing her cheeks. Soon, when the sobs became uncontrollable, he pulled her in for a hug, holding her tight and letting her cry. Hermione didn’t know how, or when, but she fell asleep.

When she woke the next morning, he was gone. A lump was lodged in her throat, her sadness begging to reach out and fall out of her body. She let it sink, refusing to give it another thought. She lazily got out of bed and rubbed her eyes before yanking herself up. She had heard a knock. She rushed to the door, hoping to find him with a couple of coffees in hand, but her face fell as soon as she opened the door. Astoria Greengrass was on the other end.


End file.
